What Fate Denies
by Casey Garmeau
Summary: University student Arthur Kirkland possesses an enchanted book that will lead him along his fate's path. But Arthur is held back by memories of his past – what will he choose to do when the book directs him to none other than Francis Bonnefoy?
1. Chapter 1

**What Fate Denies**

**_Pairing: _**_Arthur Kirkland/Francis Bonnefoy (FrUK), previous Arthur Kirkland/Alfred F. Jones (USUK)_

**_Rating:_**_ T (may increase to M later)_

**_Warnings:_**_ Possible character death (undecided), depression issues. (Warnings will be tagged at the beginning of each chapter.)_

**_Updates every two weeks on Friday evenings. _**

* * *

Arthur had always hated affairs such as this. He didn't see the point of them, really. They were all sitting in the stuffy living room and making boring, idle small-talk as the radio crackled feebly upon the mantle. A pot of hot cider stood forgotten in a dim corner, filling the hot air with its sickly sweet stench. The house wasn't built to hold anywhere near this many people; it was hard to find a place to sit where he wouldn't be brushing elbows with an uncle or a godmother or a second-cousin-once-removed. Instead, he sat stock still on the couch, trying to take up as little space as possible as he brushed biscuit crumbs off of his vest and made an attempt to block out the sound of nervous laughter and muffled weeping.

His countless relatives had been filing into the room all night. Arthur couldn't help but think cynically about how fast his grandfather had gotten to work once he had settled down. And what did he have to show for it? Fifty people with whom Arthur was expected to deal now that his grandfather was finally passing. Feigning interest was exhausting. _Remind me of your husband's name? I'm sorry to hear that your cat is at the vet again. How is hockey practice going? _If they expected Arthur to keep these meaningless conversations going for the rest of the night, he didn't know how he would make it through the next few hours.

Of course, this was also the night when he would be written into his grandfather's will. Arthur begrudgingly promised himself to see it through to the end of the evening. There was no use in purposefully removing himself, after all.

"Arthur?"

Arthur looked up. His mother gazed back at him with tear-ridden eyes, trying to keep a shaky smile on her face.

"He's asking for you," she said.

Arthur sighed and stood up, brushing the remainder of the crumbs from his lap. "Alright, let's get this over with," he said, grateful for an excuse to leave his nosy relatives behind on the couch.

She smacked his shoulder. "Don't be like that," she told him sternly. "Show some respect."

Arthur waved her off. After all, he'd be free to go after this was all over.

He pushed open the creaky door to his grandfather's room. It was even more dim in here than the living room, but the sounds of speech and shaky laughter from outside were replaced with the constant whir of a dehumidifier once the door clicked shut behind him. The air was cool and dry and dark, and although there were only three people in the room, the atmosphere was nearly as stifling as that of the crowded room outside.

"Arthur?" came his grandfather's voice, as strong now even in sickness as it had been in health.

Arthur took a seat in the armchair beside the bed. "You don't sound sick at all, old man," he said.

His grandfather laughed. "I've never felt better," he said, his voice echoing tremulously off of the walls.

The young nurse who was sitting on the opposite side of the room shot a harrowed glance at Arthur. "Quiet down, you're only going to worsen his condition."

Arthur was about to point out that he hadn't hardly made a sound, but his grandfather cut in. "Nonsense, Marie. In fact," he said, grinning at the nurse with his familiar age-worn smile, "I'd like to speak with my grandson alone for a while. Could you go see how the missus is doing?"

Marie pursed her lips but nodded. "Very well, sir. I will be back shortly."

"Such a sweet girl," said Arthur's grandfather after the door had closed behind her.

"You just like her because she speaks to you as if you're royalty," noted Arthur.

"My boy, I _am_ royalty," responded his grandfather with a twinkle in his eye.

"You're just a farmer whose father happened to strike it rich," Arthur pointed out. He settled into the chair in a more comfortable position now that it was just the two of them. He felt bad that he had been so cynical earlier about seeing his grandfather. Although the two of them were never particularly close, they got along rather well. He was the only one who seemed to really understand Arthur when no one else in his family did.

To that, his grandfather laughed. "How are you holding up?" he asked after a bit.

Arthur stifled a yawn. The dry air was making him a bit lightheaded and he was reminded that he hadn't been graced with enough sleep the night before. "What do you mean?"

"There are too many people in this house for you right now, aren't there? I'm sorry that you had to sit with them for so long. I wanted to call you in sooner but your mother wouldn't leave. You know how she gets." He chuckled lightly. "Did you have to hear your Aunt Annie's gerbil story?"

Arthur shuddered. "Twice," he said.

"Hmm." His grandfather sighed happily. "It is indeed comforting to be surrounded with loved ones in your last moments."

To that, Arthur had no suitable response. He knew that his grandfather wasn't long for this world, but the fact that he was so flippant in mentioning it made him unsure of what to say. Instead of replying to the statement, he simply closed his eyes and deeply breathed in the refreshingly cool air as he waited for the old man to continue.

A short time later, he did. "I have something for you," he said. From behind one of his pillows, he pulled a regal, leather-bound book.

Arthur took it from him and turned it over in his hands. "What's this?" he asked, flipping through the pages. Every single one of them was devoid of lines, markings, or ink of any kind. "A sketchbook?"

"Not quite."

"A journal?"

"Getting closer."

"A-"

"Don't get yourself too worked-up," said his grandfather in that same strong voice.

"Why are you giving me this?" asked Arthur. Wasn't this meeting supposed to determine what would be bequeathed unto him in his grandfather's will? Was this shoddy book all that he was going to receive? "I don't understand."

"You will, Arthur." He settled back onto his mountain of pillows. "Not today, maybe not even anytime soon. But, my boy, you will understand. And when you do realize, I will be here to help you." He pulled the sheets up to his neck. "Now, Arthur," he said, turning to smile at him. "Would you be so kind as to call Marie back on your way out?"

Arthur hadn't realized that his mouth had been hanging open. "Of course," he said, standing up. "Erm…" He wasn't exactly sure how to begin to say goodbye. But this could very well be the last time he saw his grandfather alive, so there was no way that he could leave without saying anything. "Well, in case I don't get the chance to speak with you again, I-"

"We'll speak again. We'll see each other very soon, in fact." Arthur's grandfather gave him a knowing grin. "Now, fetch Marie, if you please."

Arthur nodded silently, confused. His grandfather was extremely old, no doubt, but there had been no onset of any sort of dementia. However, there was no reason to doubt what he was saying. If it made him feel better to believe that Arthur would come to see him again, then so be it. "Alright. Goodbye then, Grandfather."

"Until next time, my boy," the old man called after him as he left the room.

Arthur brushed past his mother in the living room. He was vaguely aware of her attempting to speak to him, but he had no desire to respond. He called over his shoulder that it was late and that he really should be leaving; it was getting dark and it was a long ride back to his apartment. After a quick and entirely unavoidable goodbye speech from his mother, he was out of that stifling house at long last.

Arthur tossed the book into the holding compartment of his motorcycle and, after securing his helmet over his head, began the long drive back to London. He was perfectly content to forget all about the strange book.

Until the following Monday morning, that is. It was a dark, rainy day, and he found himself sprinting across campus to class while trying to keep a paper cup of mediocre black tea from spilling and scalding him. He was late to class - obscenely late - and here he was backtracking through the driving rain because he had _forgotten the damn book_.

He hadn't even meant to bring it with him that morning in the first place. He'd accidentally picked it up along with the rest of his textbooks that had been in the holding compartment of his motorcycle. By the time he realized, he was already waiting for his tea at the campus centre.

And now, because of this damned book, he was going to be late to the first lecture of the semester.

He rounded the final corner of the campus centre building, his clothes sopping wet from the rain and puddles that he had braved in order to reach the building. Frantically, he glanced around the area in which he had been sitting as he waited for his tea. "What?" he breather in confusion as he approached his table. The book was nowhere to be found. "Shit, no-"

"Are you looking for this?" came a light voice from nearby.

Arthur turned to see a man no older than he standing a few feet away. His long blonde hair clung to the sides of his face with water from the rain and he looked every bit as drenched as Arthur. In his hand was the dark, leather-bound book.

In normal circumstances, Arthur would proceed in a gentlemanly manner. However, this day had already been too disappointing even to consider politeness towards the stranger with his ridiculously lilting light French accent, especially after this man had taken his grandfather's book from him. "As a matter of fact, I was," said Arthur, advancing towards him. "Get your hands off of it, you prick."

The Frenchman's expression became slightly hurt. "I only picked it up," he said, "I wasn't trying to steal it, _je promis_. Anyway, what would I want with a blank book?"

Arthur snatched the book away from him and turned on his heel, rearing to sprint all the way to the lecture hall. He didn't look back at the stranger as he ran.

He was too distracted to pay close attention to his class. He took bare notes, but since the first class of the semester was never extremely substantial, he was left to mull over his dark mood. Today was definitely not turning out well. First the late arrival, then the spilt tea and burned hand, the rain, the ignorant stranger, the lost book…

Arthur glanced at his watch. There were still ten minutes left of class and his economics professor was droning on and on about the syllabus and classroom policies for the semester. Resigned to boredom, Arthur took out the leather-bound book. If anything, he could doodle a bit.

He absently flipped through the book, tapping the desk with his pen and knowing that he would find the pages naturally blank. However, around three pages from the end of the book, he stopped.

At the top of the page was an elaborate symbol, a strong, spindly design like something that one would find at the top of a headstone or within the pages of a long-forgotten classic.

Arthur's eyes widened as he stared down at the page. Below the regal heading, words began to appear as if they were fading in from the other side of the paper.

_January 14__th__, 8:26 AM_

_ First contact. _

* * *

Truth be told, Arthur should have been more careful on the road. Wind tore at his jacket and rain pelted his skin as he rode, skidding through puddles and jolting across sunken potholes. Though he was usually quite concerned with road safety, especially in conditions such as this, he made his way out of the city at top speed. Sooner than he had believed was possible, he found himself standing, drenched head to toe, on his grandfather's front porch.

Marie's expression was one of surprise as she opened the door to let Arthur in out of the rain. His grandfather was seated behind her at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a bowl of soup before him. He looked up, smiling, when Arthur entered the kitchen.

"Ah, back again so soon?" he asked, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the table. "I was just about to have lunch. Sit down, Marie can get you something warm to eat."

Arthur moved wordlessly over to the table, glancing at Marie as she stood with her back to them at the stove.

His grandfather motioned to her with a nod of his head. "Wait," he said quietly. "I promise that everything will be explained."

Marie set a bowl of soup before Arthur – a broth-heavy vegetable stew – before turning to clean the pots and stove. After determining that her work was done and asking if there was anything else her elderly client needed, she departed for the living room.

Arthur hardly waited until she had disappeared from sight before pulling the leather book from his bag and pushing it across the table. "What the hell is this?"

His grandfather chuckled. "I see that it's taken you a surprisingly short amount of time to be made aware. Very good, very good indeed."

"What's very good?" he asked, irritation boiling inside of him. "All I know is that this book was blank until that tosser picked it up and for however long afterwards." He leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "Grandfather, I saw words appear on the page. What the hell is this book?"

The old man was silent for a moment. "This book," he said, gazing wistfully at the cover, "possesses a great power. Not one of strength, but one of safety and guidance." He reached towards the book and, after a nod of assent from Arthur, picked it up. Abruptly, his speech shifted back into its usual light tone. "What about this _tosser_ who picked it up?" he asked. "What were they like?"

"What do you want to know?" asked Arthur, his growing irritation seeping into his voice. "He looks about the same age as me. A damn French bastard. Don't even know his name."

"You do," said his grandfather, opening to the front cover.

"Come again?" said Arthur. He couldn't recall hearing the man say anything remotely related to a name during their brief meeting.

"His name. It's right here." The old man slid the book back across the table and pointed to the inside of the front cover.

Looking at the cover now, Arthur didn't know how he could have missed it. There, in tiny printing in the top left corner, were the words _Francis Bonnefoy_.

* * *

_Author's note: This fic is an emotional release for me, so I expect that it will not be a particularly light read. Most of the plot will be determined by how I feel while writing it so it will most likely lean more towards depressing than happy. _

_Thank you for reading this far! If you liked this chapter then please drop a message or favorite, since if it gets no reception then I will most likely not continue posting chapters. However, if there is a single person who enjoyed it, I will continue. Thank you for your input!_


	2. Chapter 2

It was no wonder that Arthur found it impossible to settle down once he got back to his apartment. The lunacy of which his grandfather had spoken was becoming increasingly probable with each word, and it was driving him mad. An hour after he arrived back home, he was sitting on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea in his hands and absolutely no idea what to believe.

His memories about what had happened after he saw the name in the cover were rather vague and jumbled – there was only so much "mystical powers" talk that he could take at one time and he had far surpassed the day's quota. The week's, even. Maybe even the month's.

But what was it that he had told him? Once the young housekeeper had gone out of earshot for good, Arthur's grandfather had explained that the book was a marker of the Kirkland family, that their lineage had been blessed with honed psychic abilities that other people could only hope of possessing. This book had been given to Arthur's great-grandfather a century before, and it had been leading the family to success ever since then. His great-grandfather's success in business after being a farmer all his life could only be attributed to following the advice given by the book – it had led him to the man in charge of the firm that would ensure his success – and it was what led Arthur's grandfather to his wife.

And now, the book was being passed on to Arthur. And, surprisingly enough, it seemed that Arthur's mission had already been presented to him. His grandfather said that there was no way of knowing what sort of mission that it would become, just that Mr. Bonnefoy would now be playing a role in Arthur's life.

His grandfather had told him that when something important was happening, it would appear on the page – in addition, any interactions that the two of them had together would be logged. If he wanted to know what was going on at a specific time, he'd have to concentrate on bringing the words to the book and they would come.

According to the old man, it was fate that had brought Francis to the book. He hadn't stolen an opportunity from Arthur to meet someone else, someone more interesting or enamoring – it was simply that Francis was the one who Arthur was supposed to meet.

It had sounded like a load of crock at the time… But as his grandfather explained more about the book and the Kirklands, things started to make a regrettable amount of sense. Usually, Arthur was glad to get mysteries like this solved. Now, however, the new knowledge only made his head hurt.

Arthur was prepared to believe his grandfather. But, his belief in everything that he had been told rode on one fact: was the man whose name was written in the front cover of the book the same man who Arthur had run into the day before?

And Arthur knew just how to find out.

He'd been sitting on the sofa with the book open in his lap, flipping aimlessly through the pages. Nothing else had shown up by itself after the previous day's entry. Arthur assumed that this was a good thing. After all, his grandfather had said that important entries would appear by themselves. No news was good news, right?

Honing his focus had resulted in a short, undescriptive entry:

January 14th – 23:29 

_Drinking. _

So he was one of _those _then. One of the students who spent all of their time washing their woes away with alcohol late into the night. Arthur tried to stay away from that sort of thing. Alcohol meant excessive interactions with other people – he knew that he got a little too friendly when drunk – and he always ended up regretting everything the next morning.

It was after Arthur had conjured – conjured, that was a word that he had never expected to use in this regard – the entry that he figured that he'd better test the old man's words. The way to do so had appeared to him not long after he found himself doubting still what the man had told him. That was when he had noticed the new addition to the front cover: a string of ten numbers beneath the name. A phone number.

At first, he'd debated whether or not to do anything about it. But then again, wasn't it the only way to proceed if he wanted to know who this man was without tracking him down the next day? After much self-deliberation, he sent a concise message: _Is this Francis's number? _

Not long afterwards, a reply came: _Who is this? _

That settled it. Wouldn't anyone else have denied it or told him that he had the wrong number? Arthur was satisfied to have an answer, but it wouldn't be courteous to end it there. After all, if he was going to be talking to Francis constantly then it was better that he didn't leave a strange message on his phone with no context. _My name's Arthur. We have a class together. _A blatant lie. Under the circumstances, nothing else that Arthur thought to say would have made sense.

The reply came just as quickly as the previous message had: _How did you get this number? _

After a bit of thinking, he sent back: _Student directory._

This time, the reply took a long time to come in. After over five minutes of dead air, a response finally came: _I see. _

Arthur set his phone on the table and leaned back into the sofa. That… could have gone better, to be honest. A quick check of the book showed a new entry:

January 14th – 23:48 PM

_Messaging courier_.

Courier. The word by which the book chose to refer to him, as if he were nothing more than a messenger or a link between worlds. He tried to ignore it, but the word choice definitely left him with a strange feeling.

With this newest entry, all doubts that had been in Arthur's mind up until that point dissipated.

The man who had picked up the book early that morning had been Francis Bonnefoy, the same person whose life was being narrated through the book which was now in Arthur's possession. And somehow, Francis was going to become a part of Arthur's life.

His grandfather hadn't been lying. Unless this was an elaborate hoax, everything was coming together to make some amount of sense. Until that morning, Arthur had believed that he was just like any other first year university student. Now, everything had been turned upside down.

Arthur soon realized that bringing the book to campus with him only served as an unnecessary distraction, since the majority of his time during class the next day was spent checking the pages of the book for updates rather than paying attention to his professors. It was only the second day of the new term and he knew that he shouldn't be slacking off so early in the semester, but the air of importance surrounding the book made it so much more intriguing than his classes.

He tried to berate himself for being so absentminded, but he couldn't hold a thought long enough before it was lost with another flip through the pages of the book. Then, with only five minutes left in his Mathematics lecture, words began to blossom beneath the previous night's entry.

January 15th – 9:48 AM

_Clearing locker: art building floor three. _

Though the book had indeed been occupying his thoughts for most of the day, he hadn't been concentrating strongly enough to conjure an entry. It appeared on its own… Did that mean that something important was going to happen? Whatever was going on, he remembered that his grandfather had said that it was essential to respond to the book's calls. Mathematics was his only class for the day, so there was nothing keeping him from following the book's instructions.

Five minutes after the professor had dismissed the class, Arthur found himself at the top of the stairs of the art building. He leaned against a wall, clutching the book to his chest; there had been three flights of stairs to climb, and he regrettably wasn't in as good of shape as he knew that he should be.

After catching his breath, he pushed himself off of the wall and made his way toward the center of what looked like a sort of cement courtyard. The third floor of the art building was essentially the roof, so the classrooms were built facing a large common area in the center which was open to the sky.

It wasn't very difficult to locate Francis after Arthur had gotten his bearings. There was an alcove off of the main courtyard, a hidden-away space about twenty feet across which was blocked off from the open air by a thin railing. The effect was that of a closed-off balcony tucked out of the way behind the courtyard and classrooms. And there, leaning against the banister and holding a smoldering cigarette between his teeth, was Francis.

Arthur just stood for a moment, looking on. Francis's hair was tied back today, no doubt to keep it out of the embers of the cigarette. At his feet beside a plain messenger bag was a canvas drawing pad case as well as what resembled a toolbox, no doubt full of pencils or brushes. Now that Arthur thought about it, Francis _did_ look like someone who could be planning on studying art. As Arthur watched, Francis took a long drag of smoke and expelled it slowly before him, gazing across the dreary campus. It wasn't raining today and, although the clouds were threatened stormy weather at any moment, the air was clear enough and they were high enough off of the ground that it was possible to see all the way from one side of campus to the other from where they stood.

Arthur took a cautious step towards him. Now that he was here, he couldn't think of what he should say. He could alert Francis that he was there, or he could turn and leave. It didn't make much sense to have come all the way here if he was just going to leave without saying anything. He decided that just a simple greeting would do. "Good morning," he said finally.

Francis looked quickly over his shoulder with a touch of almost-imperceptible worry across his features. After a moment, his expression softened. "Good morning," he replied, turning away from him once more. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Have we perhaps met before?"

"Yesterday," said Arthur, going up to lean on the railing as well. "You picked up my book."

"Ah, of course." Francis laughed bemusedly. "You were quite the charmer. What was it you called me? A prick?"

"I just thought…" started Arthur, a stony expression coming across his features. He turned his attention back to Francis. "What are you doing here? You don't have a class now?"

Francis shook his head ever so slightly. "Skipping."

Arthur's gaze landed for a split-second on Francis's art supplies. Skipping art, then. "But it's only the second day of class. First, even, since it's Tuesday…"

"Exactly. Nothing's happening." He turned around, leaning his elbows on the railing behind him. "Besides, it's just art. Entry-level. The teacher couldn't possibly teach me anything that I don't already know during the first class."

_What an egocentric_—Arthur didn't allow himself to finish the thought. "Still no reason to skip class," muttered Arthur under his breath.

There was nothing but silence for a few moments. Then, Francis spoke. "Here I've been so polite, and you're not even going to tell me your name?"

Arthur regarded him carefully. "I'm Arthur," he said after a moment's contemplation.

Francis squinted slightly. "Not by any chance the same Arthur who messaged me last night?"

Arthur looked away. He hadn't thought as far as to decide how to explain his reason for texting him. Replaying the whole conversation in his head, he spun a quick tale. "Yes, that was me. We're in the same art class. The teacher sent me the role sheet by email because there was a fluke in the system and I wasn't enrolled. I was supposed to check to see if I was on the list or not." He stopped shortly, his mind racing. "And I like to have at least one person from every class in my contacts in case I miss anything. I just chose a random name."

"Oh? Chose a random name?" asked Francis. There was a glint in his eye that Arthur didn't particularly like.

"Yes, that's why I messaged you. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important." He hated lying, but how else was he going to move forward from this point? Besides, it seemed to him that he had a pretty solid story going. If he ended up enrolling in the art class, it will have hardly been a lie at all.

Francis shot him a sultry grin. "Are you sure that it wasn't anything else?"

Arthur glared. For fuck's sake, he wasn't in the mood to be hit on right now. "Of course not, idiot," he growled back at him.

Francis just kept that obnoxious grin plastered across his face. "So, are you going to class or not? Oh, hold on," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You must be one of those pretentious fools who actually goes to class everyday even when they know that nothing really matters in the end anyway. Am I correct?" Before Arthur had the chance to respond, Francis continued. "Enjoy." With that, Francis put out his cigarette on the railing and tossed the stub behind him. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder before turning away from the railing, grabbing his canvas and toolbox, and heading back towards the courtyard. "See you around, _mon chou_."

After a few moments of silence once Francis had disappeared from view, Arthur leaned on the railing and looked across campus from where Francis had been standing. This spot was pretty high up for only being the third floor. He had never had a reason to step foot inside the art building before, but now that he was here, he was glad that he had the chance to admire this magnificent view of the tiny university.

Arthur stood, resting his arms on the banister, for a while longer. He was just digging himself into a deeper hole by spinning these tales as to why he was following Francis. He would be surprised if Francis wasn't getting suspicious. It was more difficult than he had imagined to be around him in person without revealing what was really going on.

But how was he going to get himself out of this one? He guessed that it was a good idea to head over to the art class, the one in which Francis was enrolled and, apparently, not very interested in. Arthur himself was no good at art – he had never shown any proficiency in anything relating to the arts or creativity. He was simply more book-oriented. But hadn't Francis said that it was an introductory course? That shouldn't be too difficult, and this way, he'd have a reason to see Francis. Although the Frenchman had proved himself to be nothing more than a bother, the fact of the matter was that if this was a man who was going to make a difference in Arthur's lie, then it was a good idea to make sure that he had a legitimate reason to be around him. He was curious, and this was the only way to gain more information. Besides, it would be nice to have a creative outlet. Heavens knew there was enough constantly on his mind that he'd be able to get something down on paper.

Arthur pulled the book from his bag and opened to the most recent entry, which simply read "meeting with courier." Why had the book called him here? The conversation which he and Francis had just taken part in had been frustratingly empty. What was so important about that moment that compelled the book to have him meet with the man? What was so important about Francis and his art supplies that it was essential for Arthur to know that he was sorting out his locker? He didn't understand the book's methods or where it was leading him, and he didn't expect to understand for a long time still.

As he pondered, he began to feel light raindrops on his skin. The sky, which had seemed heavy with rain all morning, seemed to have finally given in. Not that it meant much to Arthur – if anything, he liked the rain. It helped him concentrate whenever things became particularly difficult to sort out. But there was also something in the scent or sensation of the rain on his skin that brought back memories, images of better times as well as those days which he would give anything in order to forget.

He shook his head, pulling up his jacket collar to offer more protection from the weather. As he did, a light in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Resting on the ground a few feet away was what appeared to be a small metal cylinder. He stooped to pick it up and rolled the object in his hand. It was a lighter, a silver-bodied tube that reflected what little light the dark sky allowed. There were no markings upon it that would offer any indications as to who the owner was, apart from a number of scratches across the surface, but there was no doubt in Arthur's mind who it belonged to.

He pocketed it with a short sigh. Maybe if he hadn't stood at the railing daydreaming for so long, he could have returned it before Francis was very far away. He could ask the book where he was of course, but the last thing Arthur wanted to do after a morning of classes was follow the obnoxiously flirtatious near-stranger through the rain to return his lousy lighter.

Instead, he ran through the rain with his jacket over his head as he made his way towards the spot in which he had parked his motorcycle. He silently cursed the weather as he pulled out into the streets of the city. As much as he appreciated the rain, he hated driving in it. He was always worried about having an accident, especially on his motorcycle when visibility was low. His trust in city drivers was just nigh of none.

Despite his constant apprehension, he arrived at his apartment unscathed. He quickly changed out of his wet clothes as soon as he was through the door, then fell heavily onto the sofa. A quick glance at the clock told him that it wasn't even 11 AM yet. He liked to get his classes out of the way early, even though he wasn't quite a morning person, because then he had the rest of the day to get things accomplished without sleeping until noon and losing all of that time. Before this year, he had missed so much of his life by sleeping until 2 PM. It was a flawed system, but it worked for him. Plus, it made weekends that much more relaxing.

He hadn't been assigned any work for his only class that morning, seeing as it was so early in the semester. So now, there was nothing to take up his time other than thoughts.

Usually, he'd be dwelling on the past right about this time of day. Now, however, there was something new to occupy his mind. And oh, was he glad for the distraction.

Then again, this distraction was a careless, smoking flirt. Perfect.

Speaking of which, he had a text to send: _You left your lighter_, he typed, before pressing the send button.

The response came not long after that, just like it had the night before: _I noticed. _

_Let me guess, you want me to bring it to you?_ he typed. Arthur hated to base judgments about someone who he had just met on appearances alone, but Francis seemed the type of person who would chain smoke for fun. Arthur had known too many people like that, and knew that it wouldn't be good to hold onto the lighter for too long. Francis probably had another one at home, or in his bag, or even in his pocket. But something about this one seemed… Arthur didn't know how to put it. "High-end" was a good descriptor, he decided, picking up the lighter from the coffee table where he had lain it before changing his clothes. It definitely wasn't one of the cheap plastic contraptions which he saw so often discarded around the city.

_No need. Would you mind meeting me for coffee at the campus center at around 8 tomorrow morning? _

Arthur stared down at the message for a moment. Well, that time would certainly work. His Economics class didn't start until 8:30 so that left plenty of time. And grabbing some coffee before the lecture would hopefully keep him alert enough to actually pay attention this time. _Sure_, he replied.

_See you tomorrow morning then, mon cher._

What a snob.

Arthur tossed his phone onto the sofa beside him and looked once more at the clock. It was exactly 11 AM now. If he didn't find something to do soon, he'd just end up laying around and wasting time on his laptop all day. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the sofa and made his way to the kitchen, intent on making a batch of biscuits or shortbread and wondering what good could come out of getting involved with such a man as this.

* * *

_Author's note: __Thank you again for reading. __Once again, if this gets reviews or favorites/follows, then I will continue posting chapters. Your support means so much to me!_

_(Also, I went back to change a few details in the first chapter, but nothing major.)_


	3. Chapter 3

The morning air was thin and bitter. Arthur pulled his jacket obstinately around himself against the biting wind, a foul mood having already come over him as he made his way towards the campus centre. He'd had to get up earlier than usual that morning in order to meet with Francis. Although that was what had originally instigated his bad mood, at least he was going to get coffee out of the deal. He preferred black tea in the early morning before classes but anything warm would do at this point. The entire city had frozen over the night before and the roads had been even more precarious than usual now that they were covered with a thin layer of undisturbed ice. He'd been greeted with a beautiful winter sunrise on his way to the university, but he'd been too focused on keeping his motorcycle upright on the ice to pay too much attention to it. He was just glad that it wasn't raining this morning and that the skies were clear for the time being. Rain had been falling nonstop for the past week, and he was sure that he wasn't the only Londoner who was glad to see a change in weather.

Hardly anyone else was in the campus centre when Arthur arrived. There were only a few students there so early in the morning, so he was able to quickly spot Francis sitting at a table not far away. He had a thick scarf around his neck and two cups of coffee on the table before him.

Francis looked up as Arthur approached. "Good morning," he said, gesturing to one of the cups. "I didn't know what you take in your coffee. I hope it's acceptable."

Arthur set his bag down at the foot of the table and sat in the seat opposite Francis before gratefully taking the coffee. "Thanks," he said, picking up a packet of sugar that was beside the coffee on the table and stirring the contents into the drink. He took a sip and sighed with relief as he cupped the warm beverage in his hands. The weather wouldn't warm up for hours still, maybe not even until after he got back to his apartment. It was nice to have this in the meantime.

Francis simply looked across the table at him as they sipped their coffee. "So?" he said finally.

Arthur put down his drink. "So, what?" he asked.

Francis shook his head with an expression of mild disbelief. "Did you bring my lighter, or did you only show up because I offered you coffee?"

"Oh!" Arthur rummaged through his bag and returned a moment later with the lighter in his hand. "'Scuse me, I got sidetracked. Must not be fully awake yet."

"Not a morning person?" asked Francis, taking the lighter from him and turning it over in his hands, perhaps checking for any new scratches. Seemingly satisfied with its condition, he put it in his pocket before picking up his coffee once more.

"Not in the slightest," Arthur responded. This early in the morning, he was usually hardly functioning. He'd forget things easily and end up leaving supplies at his house or in the compartment under the seat of his motorcycle. By the time his mind was finally unclouded, he would have already passed through an entire class completely in a daze. The coffee, however, would be a definite help. He could already feel himself becoming more alert.

Seeming to sense that Arthur wasn't going to elaborate his point, Francis spoke up. "Why do you take such early classes, then? You were here before nine AM on Monday."

It may have sounded like simple, boring small talk, but something in Francis's voice hinted that he was actually quite interested in what he had to say. Guessing that his interest was genuine, Arthur decided that there was no need to bend the truth. "Because otherwise I would sleep all morning and waste my life," said Arthur. It wasn't something that he usually found himself telling people; but then again, who else did he have to tell? "I could ask the same to you, really. No one takes such early classes on their own accord."

Francis muttered something that Arthur couldn't catch, then said, "I'm here early because I work during the rest of the day."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. He himself waited tables every once in a while at a local restaurant and spent some weekends helping out at the bookshop beneath his apartment, but he still had an overwhelming amount of free time whenever he wasn't working. Which, he had to admit, was an almost disgracefully great amount of time. "What sort of job do you have that requires you to work all day?"

He grimaced in the slightest, focusing at a point in the distance behind Arthur. "Nothing important, I assure you. I work two jobs."

"And you're a student at the same time?" asked Arthur, not unimpressed. "I can't say I envy you."

Francis chuckled. "It's not easy. But then again, is anything in life really easy?" A small smile played across his features as he gazed past Arthur with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were recalling some hard-to-place memory.

Arthur made a mental note to himself that Francis was full of bullshit. He was about to snap back at him, but the sound of shrill ringing from his backpack interrupted him right as he began to speak. He pulled his cell phone out of his bag and checked the caller ID. "Sorry, I have to take this," he said, seeing his mother's contact picture flashing back at him from the screen. She didn't call often, so when she did, it was most likely something important.

"Go ahead," said Francis, waving him off as he took another sip of coffee.

Arthur pressed the "answer" button and held the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

As soon as his mother's voice answered from the other end of the line, Arthur could tell that something was wrong. "Arthur?" she said, her voice heavy. "I need you to come to the hospital."

"The hospital," he repeated. "What happened? Is someone hurt?" By now, Arthur was aware of Francis looking at him questioningly across the table, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

There was silence on the other end of the line. "It's your grandfather. They say he doesn't have much time left. We knew this was going to happen, but…" There was another few moments of silence before she continued. "He's asking to see you. I think it would be best if you came to say goodbye."

Arthur stood up, fumbling with his backpack. "How serious is it?" he asked, unable to keep an anxious tone from poisoning his voice. This couldn't happen now… There was still so much that Arthur didn't know. If the old man was so intent on him visiting now, then it was bound to happen soon. Arthur hoped that he wouldn't be too late.

"I don't know," said his mother, irritation obvious her voice. "I'm sorry to call you away from school, but…" She didn't bother finishing the thought.

"Alright, I'm on my way. Tell him I'll be there soon." After scrawling the address for the hospital upon a piece of scrap paper, he hung up the phone and tossed it into his bag. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he said quickly to Francis as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

"What's going on?" said Francis, standing up as well.

"Grandfather's in the hospital," he said hurriedly. "It doesn't look good. I'm sorry to cut out on you so soon, but I really have to run." He turned away from Francis and began to make his way swiftly down the stairs.

His pace only quickened as he worked his way into the driving wind towards the parking garage. Ice still covered most of the ground, and staying upright was proving a difficult task as he attempted to avoid frozen puddles while trying to subdue the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head. How was he going to make it to the hospital on his motorcycle? He'd driven twenty miles per hour below the speed limit on his way to the university that morning, much to the irritation of the other drivers, in an attempt to stay safe on the icy roads; it wasn't a good idea to throw caution to the wind on this one, but he had to get to the hospital, and he had to get there fast. There was no other alternative.

"If you tell me the address, I could give you a ride," came Francis's voice from behind him.

Arthur jumped, skidding on a patch of ice as he tried to locate the source of the voice. He hadn't realized that Francis had been behind him the whole time, even now when he was all the way at the parking garage. "Not necessary," said Arthur, recovering from the shock. "I've got a motorcycle, I'll be fine on my own." Arthur knew this wasn't quite the truth – if anything, he was afraid of crashing on the ice due to the instability of his own vehicle. But how could he accept the help of this total stranger who appeared to have nothing to gain from helping him?

"It's icy though," he pointed out. "It would be the final irony if you were to end up in an accident on the way to the hospital, wouldn't it?" He sighed, trying a different tactic. "Listen, I have my car with me today and I wasn't planning on going to my class anyway."

Arthur weighed his options, not bothering to pause or slow down at all. If he wanted to get there both quickly and safely, the best option would be to accept. Besides, Francis didn't seem to be in the same repulsively flirty mood in which he had been the day before. Had he really come to school that morning with no plans to go to class after coffee? "Fine," he said. "Just make it quick."

Francis grinned. "I'll do my best."

Francis's car was tiny, a little box of an automobile, but it would get them there far more safely than the motorcycle. Once he had the address to the hospital, they were on their way.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the radio as it shifted in and out of tune. Arthur didn't know what to think. He hoped that he wouldn't be too late to speak with his grandfather. Now that Arthur fully believed him and his claims about the book, he was ready to listen for as long as he could in order to get information, advice, anything from the old man.

About halfway to the hospital, Francis spoke. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

Arthur put a hand over his eyes, leaning back against the seat. "Yeah. Fine," he said. It would be better just to leave it at that. He hardly knew Francis, after all. After a moment more of silence, he voiced a question that he should have asked long before. "Why are you doing this?"

"Care to elaborate?" asked Francis, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Why are you giving a total stranger a ride?" he asked simply.

"Ah, right." Francis tilted his head slightly. "It's the right thing to do, isn't it?" He gave him a sideways grin. "Besides, we're not really total strangers, after all."

Arthur let out a short _hmph_, turning to look out the window. "I… Thanks, then."

"That, and I didn't want to go to class."

"There it is," he muttered under his breath. "I knew it was something like that. Why else would you volunteer to help?"

"I don't believe you're in the position to be speaking like that, since I'm the one driving your sorry skin to the hospital," said Francis, grimacing slightly. "Don't push your luck."

"Right, sorry," said Arthur, mentally kicking himself for his insensitivity. Obviously Francis was just trying to help. But why? "I'm just having trouble thinking straight."

Francis gave a short nod. "I understand."

The rest of the trip passed in silence. The radio faded out of tune and finally ended in static, but neither of them made any attempt to turn it off. In the absence of the ever-present sound of rain against the glass, it was comforting to have some sort of white noise to listen to.

By the time that they reached the hospital, Arthur's nerves were stretched so much that he felt as if he were about to snap. The second the car stopped, he jumped out and hurried towards the glass doors that led to the front desk. After showing identification and proving his relation to his grandfather, he received the room assignment and began the long walk to the ward in which the man was being kept. Everything was the exact same clinical shade of white, and the sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nose as he searched for the room. Finally, he found the room labeled with the same number that he received at the front desk. With a shaky breath, he pushed open the door.

Arthur's grandfather was lying in a white hospital bed near the center of the room; Arthur's mother was seated beside him, her hands clasped over his as she quietly spoke. At the foot of the bed, two doctors in white jackets conversed over clipboards filled with charts. Marie was there as well, taking instructions from one of the doctors and paying no attention to Arthur as he entered the room.

The old man gave him what seemed to be the strongest smile that he could muster as Arthur made his way towards him. "Ah, there you are," he said. For the first time since Arthur could remember, his grandfather's voice was faltering.

Arthur sat beside his mother, who put a hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

His grandfather chuckled slightly. "Well, they're taking very good care of me." Was he really doing so badly that he had to avoid the question? The old man broke his gaze away to focus over Arthur's shoulder. "I see you've… you've brought a friend?"

Arthur turned, narrowing his eyes as he realized just who his grandfather was talking about. Sure enough, Francis was standing in the nearby doorway, shifting his weight uncomfortably from leg foot to the other. How the hell had he managed to get in here? Arthur could hardly get an agitated word out before Francis was striding towards them, the awkwardness from just moments before appearing to have dissipated completely.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he said, approaching Arthur's grandfather and shaking his hand delicately. "Nice to meet you, although I'm sorry that it's under circumstances such as this."

"Ah, Mister Bonnefoy," said the old man, cracking a smile. "Yes, I have heard about you."

Francis raised his eyebrows. "Have you?" he asked with a sideways glance at Arthur, surprise evident in his voice.

Arthur glared down at the floor tiles, feeling color come to his face. He wanted to shout that it wasn't anything like that, that he didn't care enough to mention him, but that was hardly important right now. There were far more pressing matters to discuss.

"Hah, indeed I have." The old man turned his attention to Arthur's mother. "Speaking of which, do you all think that you could give us a minute alone? There is something that I must speak with Arthur about."

Arthur's mother looked between the three of them before she stood up. "Alright… I'll be out in the hall."

Francis shot a curious glance back at Arthur before following her. A moment later, Arthur heard his mother say, "The cafeteria is right down here, could I treat you to a cup of tea?" and Francis respond with a graceful affirmation. Arthur rolled his eyes at the sound of their receding voices before turning his attention to the old man.

"So, that was Mister Bonnefoy, then," he stated, bemused.

"Yes." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "And before you say anything, know that he is a total prick and I want nothing to do with him."

His grandfather shook his head. "You're going to have to," he said. "How did you both end up here, anyway? This is quite a surprise."

Arthur sighed. "I was going to ride my motorcycle here, but he offered to drive me since it was too icy."

"Good man," he said. "It seems like your assignment is coming right along, then."

He snorted. "Hardly," he said. "The first time I really talked to him was yesterday, and we barely spoke for five minutes. It's just a coincidence, really."

The man's stance changed immediately. "In that case, you have to get a move on," he said, settling back against his pillows. "If you don't yet know your task, then it's time you start to try to find out."

"But I don't know what I'm doing," said Arthur, trying to keep exasperation seeping into his voice. "I just follow the book's instructions, but I don't understand anything. Yesterday it told me to go meet him at the art building, and nothing happened. Am I doing something wrong?"

His grandfather looked around the room. They were alone now, the doctors and Marie having left shortly after Arthur's mother and Francis. "Do you have it with you?" he asked.

For a moment, Arthur feared that he had left it in the car. It would be more than problematic if Francis was to lay hands on it. However, a quick search through his bag, which he had had the good sense to bring into the hospital with him, revealed the thin book. He pulled it out and handed it over to his grandfather.

"I've been thinking," said the old man, "and I've come to a sort of conclusion." He thumbed to the back of the book with a look that could have been worry across his features. After reaching the page that contained a majority of the writing, he shook his head. "It's just as I thought," he told him, "although I can't say that's a good thing." He handed the book back. "Take a look," he said, a grim expression on his face.

Arthur flipped to the page with the newest updates regarding today's coffee meeting and hospital visit. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary," he said, his brow furrowing.

"Turn the page."

He did so. All that he saw was the backside of the previous page as well as the leather-bound back cover of the book. "Okay?" he said, still not seeing what his grandfather was getting at. Was his mind going?

The old man shook his head again. "Arthur, the book isn't supposed to be this short."

The room was completely silent as the heaviness of this declaration hit him. The book narrated Francis's life; that much was true. If there was just one page left, then was his life about to be cut short? And how? It was almost too difficult to believe. "So… You're saying…"

His grandfather nodded slowly. "In all of my years using this book, I have never once seen it with this few pages until the end – that is, up until a few days ago, when you brought it back to me. I think it would be wise to keep a close eye on our friend Francis."

Arthur focused again on the page. There was just one page between the latest entry and the end of the book. "Grandfather," he started slowly, suddenly hit with a foreboding realization. "When the book told me to meet with him yesterday, he was cleaning out his art locker. He had all of his supplies with him, but he's enrolled in an art class this semester. Do you think…?"

His grandfather didn't answer right away. "Perhaps he's preparing for something, you mean?" He sighed, sitting back against his pillows. "This is a difficult situation indeed. In all of my experience, the book has only worked to aid the person who possesses it. But this time… This time, I believe that it's the other way around. Perhaps instead of him helping you, you're supposed to help him. Maybe no one else will."

Arthur stared down at the back cover, the reality of the situation sinking in like a freezing cold knife. He'd seen circumstances such as this once before. He hadn't been able to do anything. He'd stood by, useless, as everything happened around him and watched as he created a world in which nothing matters, in which everything that he held close to him was torn to shreds before his eyes. How was this time going to be any different?

As if reading his mind, his grandfather put a hand on his shoulder. "It won't be like last time, my boy. There was nothing that you could have done for him."

"This isn't about Al," he said sharply, not meeting his grandfather's gaze.

The old man was silent. "Look at me, Arthur," he said, holding Arthur by the shoulders and turning him so that their eyes met. "Listen. You can't change what happened. But this time, you can make things end differently. So tell me: are you going to sit by and watch like last time, or are you going to make a difference?"

Arthur closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. This wasn't what he expected to hear when he had walked into the room not ten minutes earlier. Every day, he did the best that he could to put what he had done behind him. And every day, he got a little closer to forgiving himself despite the fact that everything that had happened had been entirely his fault. Could he let himself watch the same thing happen once more? Could he live with himself having another death on his hands? Last time he hadn't had any warning, but this time… This time he could make sure that things ended differently.

After a long moment, he looked up at the wizened man. "I'll do it," he said, making up his mind. "Maybe this is my second chance. Maybe now I'll be able to make up for last summer. Francis may be an absolute prat, but I promise that I won't let the same thing that happened to Al happen to him too."

The old man smiled broadly back at him, although not without a hint of sadness. "There you go," he said, satisfaction in his voice. "I have faith in you. Now," he continued, sitting up and pressing the "assistance" button on the table beside his bed. "I'm feeling quite tired. I think I'll take a nap soon."

The complete change in attitude left Arthur in a state of mild shock for a moment. "Oh… Alright," he said, standing up. "I'll leave you, then."

"I believe in you," his grandfather reminded him. "Now, goodbye Arthur. I couldn't have asked for a better grandchild than you. Stay safe, and take care of your mother for me."

Arthur shifted uneasily. "Will I see you again?" he asked, apprehensive of what the answer would be.

His grandfather closed his eyes. "I'm afraid not. I've seen the end of my own story, child, and I am perfectly content with it." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I fear that this is the last time that you and I will have the chance to speak before then."

Arthur reached down to give his grandfather's hand a quick squeeze. "Thank you so much," he said. "Thank you for your guidance, and also for all that you did for me last summer. I'll never forget it."

The man smiled. "Of course, Arthur. Now, go get your mother. I doubt she'll be leaving anytime soon, and I'm the one who is expected to entertain her until she does."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh a bit at that. Even when he was so weak, his grandfather was still letting sarcastic comments fly like there was no tomorrow. At least he knew who he got it from.

The trip back out to the car passed quickly, what with Francis's constant commentary about how charming Arthur's mother was, about how he was glad that he was currently skipping his useless conversational French class, about how the cafeteria's tea had nothing on the campus centre's, about how he was surprised that Arthur's grandfather had recognized his name. But now that Arthur was truly listening, he realized how obvious it all was – that conversation was Francis's defense.

The more he spoke, the less he really said.

On the way back to campus, Arthur voiced the concern that had been on his mind ever since his conversation with his grandfather. "Are you alright?" he asked with a sideways glance at the man in the driver's seat beside him.

If Arthur hadn't been paying such close attention, he wouldn't have noticed Francis's smile falter for a fraction of a second. "Of course," he said, a grin plastered once more across his face as he gracefully changed the subject. "Do you want to stop for a pastry on the way back? I don't really want to go back to my French class yet. Would anyone care if we just skipped the rest of the day altogether?"

The first time that he had seen someone wear such a fake expression of happiness, he hadn't recognized what it was hiding. Now, however, he didn't know how he hadn't realized.

He'd never been extremely good at sensing the mood or the emotions of others, but now that he had something to go on, he could tell. It was the same look that he had seen in Alfred's eyes the year before, the same helpless expression which he kept barely hidden by a falsified smile.

He had the chance to make up for what happened last summer. And this time, there was no way that the events of the year before would repeat themselves. Not if he could help it.

* * *

**A/N:**

_Thanks again for reading. As you can probably tell, I'm including past character death. Now, my question for you all is this: do you want the next chapter to be a flashback (I've already written most of it so I could have it up by next Friday), or would you like me to continue with the main story and reveal past events along the way in a more ambiguous way?_

_If you could drop a review stating your preference, I'll give it consideration. Reviews are always, always appreciated. Thank you so much for reading this far!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**TW for this chapter: **self-harm, mention of suicide_

**_Please read the Author's Note at the end._**

_This chapter takes place one year before the main story. _

_(It's not exactly crucial to the plot, so it's alright to skip this chapter and the next as well if you don't want the backstory.) _

* * *

It was all so surreal. Alfred wasn't supposed to stay with them for very long, just six months. At the beginning, Arthur had often felt that the day that Alfred would finally be gone could not come soon enough.

But he never imagined that it would happen like this. No, never like this.

Alfred arrived in late November of their final year of sixth form. Arthur disliked him immediately; that's all there was to it. He hadn't wanted anything to do with an exchange student in the first place. But, seeing as his mother was one of the main English teachers at the school, it was inevitable that his family would end up hosting a foreign exchange student when it came time to find a host and no other families had stepped up.

"We have an extra room, why should we deny a student from studying abroad when we have space to spare?" his mother had said.

"She's right, Arthur. Try to show a little selflessness every once in a while, alright?" his father had continued.

He hadn't been trying to be selfish. The thought of living with a stranger with an unpredictable personality left him with an uneasy feeling, one that refused to pass no matter who assured him that it would be okay. Arthur, having been outnumbered by his parents, found himself having to share his home less than one month later.

Alfred was obnoxious. There was no other word for it. He was loud, he talked with food in his mouth, and – shockingly enough – he unabashedly walked around the house in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. By the third day that he had been staying with the Kirklands, he seemed to have already settled in completely and was strutting around the house as if he owned the place.

Looking back, Arthur realized that Alfred had never meant any disrespect. It had definitely seemed that way at the beginning, though, especially at times when Alfred would dig through the pantry and complain loudly in that grating American accent about how there was "no goddamn food in this house."

Arthur couldn't stand him. The two of them were as different as night and day. Alfred was supposedly an adequate student – how else would he be accepted to a study abroad program? – yet Arthur had never seen him open a book. And even worse yet, Alfred always ended up doing something loud and obnoxious whenever Arthur was trying to study for his classes. Arthur would shut his door and stuff a towel against the bottom to block out the noise, but the sounds of heavy rock music or Grand Theft Auto or Alfred's quick-paced American-accented voice chattering away on the phone would always worm themselves into Arthur's room no matter what he did.

It wasn't until Christmas Eve that his impression of Alfred began to change.

It had snowed earlier that morning, and the landscape was laden with a muffled silence as the sun set that evening. Arthur had already gotten ready for bed and was indulging in a cup of herbal tea to help him sleep. He'd noticed something different, however, as he was walking back to his room after setting his mug in the kitchen with the intention of dealing with in the morning.

As he passed Alfred's room, he noticed that the light was still on. It was strange; whenever Alfred was there he was always crashing around or listening to music on his speaker system. Now, it was completely silent. No, not completely. As Arthur approached the door, he could hear an almost imperceptible sound.  
"Alfred?" he questioned, carefully pushing the door open. When he caught sight of the American, his suspicions were confirmed.

Alfred was sitting on his bed, his knees clutched to his chest and his lighted cell phone in his hand. His face was pressed to his knees and his shoulders were shaking. He gave no indication that he had heard Arthur at all.

"Alfred, what happened?" asked Arthur, a little louder this time.

He looked up, hurriedly wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his red hoodie. "Hey Arthur," he said, his voice heavy.

"Uhm," said Arthur, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway. "Can I come in?" He didn't necessarily want to get involved, especially with Alfred of all people, but he couldn't just leave someone to cry alone. Even if it was his generally rowdy housemate.

Alfred sniffed, blinking rapidly before putting his glasses back on. "Sure," he said, shifting a pile of blankets across the bed to make a spot for him.

Arthur sat beside Alfred as the latter pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin upon them, looking as if he were about to start crying again. "So… do you want to talk about it?" asked Arthur after a bit of silence.

Alfred snorted, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Nah, I don't really wanna bother you with this sort of shit. Doesn't really relate to you, I mean."

"It's obviously important, though," said Arthur. He'd never seen Alfred in any state other than enthusiastic and borderline illogically energetic. "Otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this."

Alfred was silent for a moment. Then he sighed, clicking the light off of his cell phone and setting it on the nightstand. "It's my… my little brother," he said, getting slightly stuck on the words. "There was an accident just now."

After a few more moments of silence, it seemed that Alfred wasn't going to elaborate. Arthur allowed him a bit of time to take a few deep breaths before softly urging him to continue. "What kind of accident?" he asked, being careful to keep an even tone in his voice.

Alfred pushed his glasses up his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "He just got his driver's license recently and he was driving up north with a friend… They just got a bunch of snow up there, you know? Well, he… Uhm…" Alfred was fighting to keep his voice steady. "There was a patch of black ice on the freeway and he… He spun into oncoming traffic, and—" Alfred stopped, a choked sob escaping his lips. "Matthew's not doing so well right now," he managed finally. "His friend's fine. The guy he was traveling with just called to tell me that Matt's in a coma."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He didn't have any siblings or even particularly close friends for that matter, and he could hardly imagine what Alfred must be experiencing. He knew he wasn't any good at comforting people, but he had to try. He tentatively reached out a hand towards him with the intent of laying it on his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

Before he could, however, Alfred was reaching for him. Alfred grabbed onto the front of Arthur's shirt and buried his face into the fabric upon his shoulder.  
Arthur's first instinct was to jump back – he always found it uncomfortable being in such close proximity to anyone. Before the reaction took hold of him, however, he caught himself and instead put a comforting arm over Alfred's shoulders. As far as Arthur knew, Matthew was Alfred's only brother. It must be traumatic to lose someone so close to him. _No, not lose_, he reminded himself. No, there was still hope. People come out of comas all the time, right?

Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur's back, holding on tightly as if Arthur was the only thing holding him tethered to the earth. After a moment of silence other than Alfred's continued, uneven breathing, Arthur did the same. Even if Alfred was a total ass 99% of the time, there was no one else who would be there for him now.

If only in the slightest, Alfred seemed comforted. After a while, his fretfulness dissipated into deep breaths and his grip around Arthur's waist slackened. Not long after, he had fallen asleep heavily on Arthur's shoulder. It was understandable; after that shock, he must be emotionally exhausted. Arthur hadn't dealt with anything like this in the past, but he made an effort to try to understand as best as he could.

Things were better after that. Well, better between the two of them. Alfred seemed to think of Arthur as a friend after that night, and Arthur treated him with a polite tolerance in return.

However, Alfred was different after that. He no longer made an absurd ruckus in his room; loud music didn't play from his stereo speakers, and his phone conversations were hushed and concise.

Matthew's friend, Gilbert, the one who had been in the car during the accident, called Alfred every evening to let him know how Matt was progressing. So far, nothing had changed. Alfred brought up the grades that had slipped so much due to slacking off for the first few months; however, he did this primarily by immersing himself with an almost unhealthy obsession in his schoolwork, and he didn't leave his room apart from the times when his friends would come by looking for him. Even then, he left the house with a distracted look behind his pasted grin.

Arthur tried to give him space. Frankly, he was relieved that he no longer had to deal with such a boisterous housemate. He felt guilty for thinking in such a way, but he would be lying if he said that it wasn't easier to deal with being around him now.

It wasn't until early February that Arthur realized just how dire Alfred's situation was.

Alfred had gotten out of the shower half an hour before. At least, the water had stopped running then. He usually left the bathroom mere minutes after the water pipes quieted. Tonight, however, the door was shut tight.

"Alfred?" called Arthur, rapping his knuckles against the door.

No response.

"Hey, Alfred, you okay?"

Still nothing.

"Honestly, if you're just mucking around in there then you should think about coming out soon."

Not a sound.

Arthur bit his lip. This really wasn't like him. "Alfred, I'm coming in. You'd better be decent."

He wasn't prepared for the scene that he was met with on the other side of the door.

Alfred, clad just in his usual sweatpants, was curled up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. His arms were wrapped loosely around his torso, but there was a long trail of what was unmistakably blood running down one of them and spattered on the tile floor. Beside him was what looked like the blade of a disposable razor.

"Alfred," breathed Arthur, dropping to his knees beside him. "Alfred, can you hear me?" he asked, panic arising in his voice. He was beginning to feel dizzy at the sight of the blood, but he squinted his eyes and took a deep breath to clear his mind. "Alfred," he said again, louder this time as he tapped Alfred's face.

Alfred opened his eyes and looked up at Arthur with an unfocused gaze. "What?" he muttered.

Arthur breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank god," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

Alfred just stared at him. "Is that a trick question?"

That was a yes, Arthur supposed. Well, as alright as it was possible for him to be while bleeding from the wrist. Which reminded him. Arthur stood and began rummaging through the cabinets. He returned not long after to where Alfred still sat, leaning against the sink and staring blankly at the wall opposite him.  
"May I?" asked Arthur, holding out a hand.

Alfred didn't even look at him. "I can bandage it myself, you know," was all that he said. However, after a bit of coaxing, he held out his left wrist toward Arthur.  
Arthur dampened a tissue with hydrogen peroxide and began to clean the dried blood from Alfred's arm. Arthur couldn't imagine what could have happened to cause this. Of course, Alfred had his own reasons and Arthur had no right to know if Al didn't want to tell him. But he found himself thinking, for the first time, that if there was a way that he could help Al, then he wanted to be able to do so.

Had Matthew gotten worse? But that wouldn't cause Alfred to do something like this. Matthew was still alive, right? Sure, Alfred hadn't seemed too well recently in the scheme of things, but was there something that specifically triggered this?

They sat in complete silence until Arthur spoke. "So… did something happen?"

A grim expression made its way onto Alfred's face. "Yeah. Something happened."

"Matthew?" he guessed.

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, Matt's doing just as badly as always. They don't expect him to change anytime soon."

As Alfred fell into silence once more, Arthur began pressing another clean piece of gauze to the wound. The bleeding had apparently stopped before Arthur had arrived, but there were trails of dried blood running from the cuts. Evidently, there had been a lot of bleeding a little while before, and Alfred had done nothing to stop it. Part of him wondered if Al would really be okay. "Something new, then?"

He hadn't noticed the silent tears going down Alfred's face. "Yeah something new," he said his voice strained. "My boyfriend broke up with me yesterday. We got in a huge fight and he ended it." Alfred took a deep breath to steady his voice. "And today I woke up with hundreds of messages waiting for me, from my classmates. Not good things." He pulled his arm out of Arthur's grasp in order to run his hands through his hair. "He outed me to the entire school. And… and my parents got wind of it, too." He slowly offered his arm once more to Arthur, who worked once more on bandaging it. "I don't know if you know this, but people aren't really tolerant of that sort of thing where I'm from."

Arthur hardly knew what to say. Having never been in a serious relationship, he hadn't ever had any sort of sympathy for those getting over breakups. He didn't want to be insensitive, per se, but he just didn't see what was so important about deciding you weren't going to marry someone. That's what dating was for, right?

"You're gay, then." Arthur presented it as a statement rather than a question.

Alfred's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "If that's the way you want to put it, then yeah." He looked away. "Is that a problem?"

Of course it wasn't. Well, not particularly. It was definitely strange to think that the attractive foreign sports star who had his choice of any girl he wanted preferred men instead, but it wasn't unheard of. "I'm a little surprised," Arthur admitted. "But no, it's not a problem."

Saying that Alfred looked taken aback would be an understatement. He looked positively bewildered for a moment before he said, "Are you serious? You don't care?"

Arthur shook his head, tying the end of the bandage to keep it in place. "Not really. I don't know what sort of reaction to expect from Texans, but it should be better here, if anything. Not that you should advertise it, I mean." Arthur was starting to stumble over his words. He wasn't used to talking about these sorts of things.

"That's not what I asked," said Alfred, looking back at him. "I asked if you care."

"It's not my business who you choose to love," he said slowly, casting his gaze at the tile floor. He didn't want to talk about this. But, he reminded himself, Alfred was already suffering, and if this would help him feel better, then so be it. "I mean, you're still just Alfred to me."

He was quiet for a moment, his features more relaxed. "Thanks, dude. That means a lot."

Arthur ran his fingertips absently over the smooth ridges of the bandages. "Why did you do this? Having someone leave you isn't a reason to kill yourself, is it?"

Alfred looked at him, perplexed. "No way, I didn't want to die." He stopped. "Well, I… I did, but… I wouldn't…" He paused again. "I just didn't know what to do. There was nothing that I _could_ do. Except this. I just saw it sitting there and figured that it might help. Cause I fucked up so badly this time. You know?"

"I can't say I do," said Arthur. He was relieved that Alfred wasn't concerning himself too heavily with death-related thoughts, but everything about this situation was still worrisome. He took the blade from Alfred's palm and closed his own fingers around the metal, wincing as his skin pressed against the sharp edges. "I want you to tell me if you feel this way again. I don't want to see you hurt."

Alfred stared at him, a mixture of confusion and thankfulness on his face. "Sure. Thanks, man."

Arthur stood. "You should get some rest," he said.

Alfred nodded and pulled himself to his feet. After a moment, though, he wobbled and leaned on the counter for support. "I'm fine," he said, noticing Arthur's concerned look.

"Are you sure?" asked Arthur, offering a hand to Alfred.

He waved him away. "Yeah. I'll be okay. I've just got to rest a bit." He grimaced, but found his balance. "Thanks though, Arthur. I mean it."

Arthur helped him to his room, brought him a glass of orange juice and a biscuit, and made sure that Alfred was settled in before heading to his own room.

He found it hard to sleep that night. Alfred had been living at his house for almost three months, but how he was realizing that he hardly knew him at all. Arthur knew that it would have been impossible to know that Alfred was gay without him explicitly saying so, but it was hard to think that he hadn't realized that he would be so quick to hurt himself like that when things got particularly bad.

Alfred didn't try anything else for the next month or so. Arthur hid the blade in his own desk drawer and checked every night to make sure that it was still there. It always was. He hated it and what it stood for regarding his temporary housemate, who he found himself disliking less and less with every encounter. Ever since that night, all of his anger towards Alfred had dissipated to be replaced with something more along the lines of sympathy or understanding. He didn't know what he could do for Alfred except for be there for him. So that's what he tried to do.

And then, finally, at the end of March, things began to change.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hello again, and thank you for reading. I'm sorry that I had to leave off at this point! I was at a convention all weekend, and also this chapter got too long to put into one part (and I've started translating fanfics from French to English so I've got a lot going on right now!). The next part will be on schedule as well, and then back to the main story. _

_So, the reason why I stated at the beginning that I wanted you all to read this note is because I really, really mean no offence to anyone by writing this. I already said in Chapter 1 that I'm using this fic as a personal release, and so I projected my own struggles onto Al. I really don't mean any offence and I'm just writing what I know. _

_I know that there are only a couple of die-hard fans sticking around at this point, so thank you for staying with me! Reviews will be obsessed over as always. _


	5. Chapter 5

**TW for this chapter: death, blood**

_This chapter is supplementary information as well. It is not vital to the main story line._

_Quick note: (A lot of you have been messaging me through fanfiction, but I much prefer tumblr for PMs. My URL is aphkirklands.) __Huge thank you to Yukai707, TaliaLion234, and zoewinter1 for their continued support and reviews. I really appreciate you three!_

* * *

It had taken a while for Alfred to recover from the shocks of that winter. About a month after everything had settled down, however, he was back in a more bright and energetic state. He'd made a surprising amount of friends, in fact, a rowdy bunch who seemed to wield the most power and popularity in the student body. And somehow, they had ended up getting a group together to get the faculty to agree to host a sort of Prom for the graduating students. They called it "School Formal," but it was a dance nonetheless.

The dance was scheduled for midway through the spring quarter; Alfred, who was pouting about missing his high school Prom, was ecstatic. "It's bound to be some weird British bastardization of Prom," Alfred had confided to Arthur a few days before the dance. "But it's still Prom!" So, in the final days of the month, Arthur found himself being dragged along with Alfred to the dance.

He hated it, to be honest. It was too loud, and he was surrounded by far too many people.

Alfred had easily found a date for the night, a short girl who tied her dark hair up with red ribbons and who hung out with the same group of people as Alfred did. "Find a date, dude," he'd told Arthur a week or so earlier. "Going to Prom alone is the hugest loser-move on the planet." Arthur quickly pulled the conversation to a halt by telling him that, first of all, it wasn't Prom, and second of all, he couldn't care less whether he had a date or not. And now, he couldn't believe that he had allowed himself to be dragged along. The atmosphere of the room was stifling, and it was all that he could do not to bolt out the door.

Around halfway through the evening, however, he made his way into the front hall. The loud music still reverberated through the open entry room, but at least he was the only one here and didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with three hundred other students. The music from the main room left a loud ringing in his ears even though he was now in a quiet environment. He let himself fall heavily onto a sofa at the edge of the room and draped an arm across his eyes to block out the light from the lamps around the walls, glad for a moment to relax.

"Hey, Arthur!"

Arthur stifled a groan. He'd come out here to avoid talking with or being around people, but apparently that was too much to ask for. He took his arm away from his eyes and let it drop heavily upon the sofa. "If you're just here to yell about how great the dance is, then save your breath."

Alfred pouted, moving Arthur's arm out of the way and taking a seat beside him. He crossed his legs and threw his arms over the back of the sofa in what seemed to be an attempt to take up as much space as possible. "Nah, I was looking for you. Thought you'd be here. Y'alright?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" said Arthur, stifling a yawn. It was becoming far too late to be awake. He just wanted to go home and settle into his warm bed, since winter's cold had not yet released its hold on the country and the trip back home would be sure to give him a chill. "Just too many people, that's all."

Alfred let out a muffled laugh. "I figured." He fidgeted a bit before continuing. "Actually, I had something that I wanted to ask you."

Arthur looked over at him, raising his eyebrows. What could Alfred possibly have to ask him that couldn't wait until they got home? He didn't particularly want to do him any favors at the moment, so if he wanted something then he'd best ask someone else. "Yeah? What is it?"

Alfred was the kind of person to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Now, however, Arthur couldn't read his expression. Was he worried? Anxious? Elated? Some combination of the three? "There was something that I was wondering. I just…" He paused for a moment before shaking his head. "Never mind. There's no way. Sorry for bothering you." With that, Alfred stood and made his way back towards the dance, his hands stuck defiantly in his pockets.

Arthur didn't move for a moment as he considered what had just happened. He didn't really want to go back into the stuffy main dance room, but he always jumped at challenges such as this. He knew himself better than Alfred did, didn't he? How was Alfred supposed to know what answer Arthur was going to give to whatever question he had if he didn't ask it?

Besides, he had an idea about what Alfred was talking about. He'd caught the glances, the smiles, the lingering looks when Alfred thought he wasn't looking. And somehow, it stirred something within him. He'd never felt this with anyone else before, and it scared him at first. About another man, no doubt. And _Alfred_ of all people.

As much as he hated to admit it, he'd given it some amount of thought. Not even some; he'd entertained the idea of what it would be like to be involved with Alfred more often than he cared to admit. Before he helped Alfred through his situation with his ex, he himself hadn't thought too much about himself in that respect. He'd never felt anything of a romantic nature from anyone, woman or man. Social interactions weren't one of his priorities, and he spent more time on his schoolwork and academics than on building relationships. That's to what he attributed this lack of romantic interest in the past.

These foreign thoughts that he had been keeping inside of him for over a month regarding Alfred were threatening to surface as he caught Alfred's wrist during his attempt to escape back into the stuffy dance hall. Something told him that he should feel bad about stopping him. But he was right there, and if there was something important that he had to say then this was the time. Arthur tried to remind himself not to get his hopes up too high as Alfred turned back towards him.

"Hey, I told you it was no big deal," Alfred muttered, an uncharacteristic crease between his eyebrows.

Arthur pursed his lips. "No, this is important," he told him. "If this is about what I think it is, then I'd very much like to have this conversation."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh, okay," he said, shifting awkwardly.

Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred's wrist. "Come on, let's get away from the door. It's too loud."

Alfred made some resistance, but followed him reluctantly back to the couch.

"So," said Arthur as they settled back onto the couch from before. "What was it that you were going to say?"

"It doesn't matter too much, I already told you that." Alfred looked down at his feet, scuffing the ground with the toe of one shoe. Arthur had never before seen him this uncomfortable, save for the weeks during which he was dealing with the situations with Matthew and with his ex-boyfriend. "I just…" He looked back up at Arthur. "Don't laugh, 'kay?" After a moment, he took a deep breath and continued. "When you helped me out a while back, you said that you don't care who I love, right?"

Arthur felt his heartbeat quicken for a moment before he reminded himself to stay calm. Was this conversation really headed in the direction he thought it was? He could hardly believe it. "Yes, I recall saying something along those lines," he mumbled, trying to keep his speech professional until he knew for sure what Alfred was talking about.

Alfred was stuttering again, speaking in a muffled tone that was so unlike him. "Well, I guess I just got to thinking after that…" He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "You really understand me. Or at least accept me, which is a lot more than my friends back home can do. And I guess I was just wondering…" Another deep breath before he quickly blurted out the rest of his thoughts. "I like you a lot, Artie, and I was wondering if you maybe like me too."

It took Arthur a second to process the rapid thoughts that Alfred had let out. Once he did, however, he could hardly stop himself from smiling. "Of course I do," he said, a laugh escaping his lips. "You're the closest thing that I have to a friend, after all." As soon as he said the words, he wondered if that was the right way to say how he was feeling.

Apparently it wasn't, since Alfred just grimaced. "I don't think we're on the same page here, man. I mean, I feel the same way about you that I did about Ivan, before–" he didn't finish verbalizing his thought.

"No, I understand," said Arthur, feeling himself start to smile again. He hadn't thought that he'd be smiling so much this evening; then again, he had anticipated only the dance and not anything remotely like this conversation which he was now having with Alfred.

Alfred looked back at him, a dazed expression on his face. "What?" he muttered, looking as if he didn't believe what he was hearing.

"I mean," said Arthur, backtracking a bit. "I don't necessarily know why, since you're loud and obnoxious and never seem to know when it's a good time to speak, but I feel the same way about you."

The confused expression was replaced almost immediately with a grin. "Wait, no way," he said. "You're not kidding? I thought you… Really I was just trying to come clean with you because it feels really weird living in the same house while thinking like this and–"

Arthur stopped his rambling with a wave of his hand. "No, I'm completely serious. I know that I'm really bad at this kind of thing, but if you're willing to put up with me, then I'd…" He stopped, trying to decide how to say it. "Well, I'd be happy to give it a try, at least."

Alfred looked as if he could have hugged him.

The two left the dance early that night, taking advantage of the late hour to stay up until four in the morning on Alfred's bed, talking more than they ever had together during the many months that Alfred had been living with the Kirklands. It would be over a week before Alfred initiated the first kiss, a slightly awkward affair with bumping noses and foreheads that left them both laughing before making another, more successful attempt.

They lived in that way for two glorious months, making the most of the evenings when Arthur's parents worked late to stay up talking until they couldn't speak any longer, or resting in each other's arms in the late evening with the sound of rain running down the windowpanes to lull them to sleep.

If Arthur had known at the time what sort of gruesome end this would lead to, perhaps he would have been able to savor their last days together.

* * *

It happened a week before Alfred was set to leave for the United States. They'd put off thinking about it – when they'd gotten together, the two months that there were before Alfred would have to leave seemed like more than enough time. However, those months seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Soon enough, they were planning their final date before Alfred's departure.

Like every day during the preceding week, they were met that morning with sunshine and a gentle breeze. They'd argued about the venue but the weather was too good to miss. So, with a picnic basket full of lunch and a bottle of wine packed in the back of Arthur's father's little car, they set off for a distant beach that Alfred had chosen from a slightly-outdated tourism map.

Once they arrived, Arthur wasn't quite sure as to what there was to do. After all, the water was far too cold and dangerous to swim, and he didn't know of any sports that could be played with just two people.

However, Alfred seemed enthused out of his mind to be there. He immediately took a quick run around what seemed to be most of the entire beach before jogging back to Arthur, who had taken it upon himself to bring the basket along on the long walk from the car. "You live on an island, how come you never go to the beach? This is awesome!"

Arthur couldn't see what was so "awesome" about it. Despite the warm temperature of the air, the water was still bound to be freezing and he didn't like the looks of the waves crashing heavily onto the rocks just offshore. He hoped that Alfred didn't expect him to swim.

But being in Alfred's company was enough, really. After all, they only had a week before he had to go back to the United States. And although they were content to get out and enjoy the time that they had left, the fact that their time was running out still lurked in the back of his mind.

They'd enjoyed their picnic out on the sand after Alfred had calmed down enough to sit still. Alfred had made sandwiches for the two of them and Arthur had made little cakes and packed a thermos of tea, which they happily enjoyed on the bank of the cold ocean as the rare sunshine shone down upon them.

Alfred seemed just as energetic after they finished the bottle of wine ("I need to get as much of this as I can before I get back to the States, this is illegal there"), but its effect on Arthur was to make him warm and sleepy. He'd brought a book along with him, but he really just felt like taking a nap. It was warm enough outside; the only thing he'd have to worry about was getting a sunburn from sleeping too long, and he was sure that Alfred would get bored and wake him up before he had a chance to let that happen.

So, when Alfred started talking big about his swimming abilities not much later, Arthur promptly tried to shut him down. "I don't care how good a swimmer you are, honestly," he said, leaning back and resting the open book over his face to block the sun from his eyes. "I'm not swimming. It's too cold, and I'm horrible at it anyway."

"Aw, buzzkill," pouted Alfred. He slumped over on the blanket, seeming as though he wasn't going to make any more of a fuss than that. A few minutes later, however, he was back on his feet. "Hey Arthur, I bet that I can swim all the way to that island out there!"

Arthur nudged the book just a tad so that he could see in the direction in which Alfred was pointing. "That's not an island," he said, closing his eyes once more. "Get your head out of the clouds. It's just a big rock."

"Wow, no fun allowed," Alfred replied, although his voice was still as bright as it had been before Arthur began making snide comments. "I'll bet it's a lot bigger than it looks. It's pretty far out, right?"

"Alfred, shut up." Arthur snapped his book shut, sitting up and fixing Alfred with an agitated gaze. "Honestly, I'm trying to rest. And I know it's _you_ I'm asking, but could you please just shut the hell up for five minutes?"

Alfred was surprisingly quiet for a few moments as Arthur settled back onto the blanket beside the picnic basket. "Rude," said Alfred after a bit.

For a few peaceful minutes, it seemed that Alfred was actually going to give him a moment of rest. No such luck, however. Not much later, Alfred piped up once more. "Hey, how much you wanna bet I can swim all the way there?"

Arthur gritted his teeth in irritation. Was he _seriously_ incapable of shutting his mouth for more than five minutes? Honestly, maybe it was _good_ that Alfred was leaving soon. He was a handful and Arthur usually found him hard to handle. Now, at least, he had a chance to make him go away for a bit. "I will personally give you ten pounds if you can swim all the way to that damned rock and back," he spat. He hated how much that sounded like a bribe, but all that he cared about was having a moment of peace and quiet. Even though Alfred was leaving soon, he still wanted to have a bit of peace every once in a while. And if that meant sending Alfred off to do who knows what, then so be it.

"I'm just gonna have a bunch of fun without you then. Hold this, 'kay?" he stripped off his shirt and jacket and tossed them onto Arthur before turning around and bounding into the water.

Arthur should have stopped him. The waves had been looking particularly large and dangerous, and, looking back, the water was too treacherous for even the most experienced swimmers.

He couldn't see Alfred – he was already starting to feel a bit drowsy and was paying little or no attention to what shenanigans his boyfriend was getting up to – but he could hear his voice. "Fucking freezing!" Alfred shouted from the water. "Hey, ya think I could swim to France from here?"

"Didn't you say you were going to swim to the rock?" Arthur called back, not bothering to look up.

"Dude, it's really far out. Give me some time." Alfred's voice was already starting to sound muffled and distance. "And hell yeah I'm swimming there, that money you promised me is gonna buy me lunch at the airport on Friday. You'll be sorry you agreed to this! Hah!"

"Alright, whatever," muttered Arthur. He was glad that he finally had a moment to rest. He didn't know how Alfred was still so energetic so shortly after lunch. After the wine that they had had, all that Arthur wanted to do was sleep. The sun shone down on him, the light warm against his skin, and he found himself peacefully nodding off on the blanket.

When he woke with a jolt some time later, it took him a while to recall exactly where he was. The air had turned cold while he rested, and the sun was blocked out by thick gray clouds. He sat up groggily, the book falling heavily into his lap. He looked around for Alfred as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. The space beside him was empty, and he didn't see him anywhere else on the beach.

"Al?" he called, standing up and catching his balance. How long had he been out? Surely not so long that Alfred was still out at his so called "island." Arthur squinted out to the horizon, focusing on the rock to which Alfred had swam. He didn't seem to be there, either. "Al, this isn't funny," he called, louder this time, as a feeling of general unease came upon him.

Where could he possibly be? The beach was a small one and there weren't any hiding places nearby. He could have gone back to the car, of course, but wouldn't he have stopped by to gloat to Arthur first? Of course he would have. Did that mean that Alfred was still in the water? But he wasn't at the island, apparently…

Arthur scanned the ocean surrounding the beach for any sign of him, trying not to give in to the growing sense of panic. It wasn't worth it. Because Al was fine, right? He'd been boasting earlier about how good of a swimmer he was, saying that he'd been on the swim team back in America for years. So there was no way that he –

He nearly felt his heart stop as his gaze fell upon a form draped over the scraggly rocks just offshore. As he watched, a murky brown wave tinted dark with debris and foam crashed over the figure, who seemed to hunch in the slightest against the impact. It only took him a moment to realize that there was no doubt that it was Alfred.

Arthur tossed the jacket and shirt onto the sand and ran as fast as he could through the freezing water towards Alfred, trying hard to ignore the blatant trails of red streaming down Al's body that he could see even from this distance. The icy water crashed relentlessly against him and the cold made him feel numb all over, but still he pressed on in a panicked determination.

Another freezing wave crashed over Al as Arthur made his way through the water. Alfred was still clinging feebly to the face of the rock as Arthur reached him at long last.

Alfred's back was hunched against the cold and the sea spray, and he shuddered as Arthur put his hands on his shoulders. There were deep scratches across his back, no doubt caused by an impact with the rock, and his blonde hair was tinged a deep red at the crown. "Arthur?" he responded shakily. "Man, I fucked up…"

"Hold on, I've got you," said Arthur hurriedly. He put himself between the ocean and Al, taking most of the impact as another wave crashed over them. "Can you walk?" After a shake of the head from Al, he draped Al's arm over his shoulder and held as much of his weight as he could before making his way back to the beach. The headache that was intensifying behind his eyes pounded relentlessly and his legs refused to work, but at long last, Arthur found himself safely back on dry land with Alfred.

What happened after that was a blur of confusing memories. He shakily dialed 999 on his cell phone and spoke hurriedly with a receptionist on the other end who assured him that everything would be okay and that an ambulance was on its way.

After hanging up, he tossed his phone to the sand and knelt beside Alfred. "Al?" he said, cupping his boyfriend's face in his hands. He couldn't stop his voice from trembling as Alfred reached up to hold one of his hands in a slack grip. The cuts on his arms and back didn't seem life-threatening, but he could only hope that the wound on the crown of his head was less serious than it looked.

Al was silent for a moment, staring up at the sky above them. "I don't want to die here," he mumbled, his voice garbled with delirium as he pressed a hand against a gash across his arm in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

"You won't, it's not that serious," Arthur lied, stripping off his jacket and pressing it to one of the wounds. "Just hold on, okay?" He was trying his best to keep his voice steady – if he made his complete panic apparent then he risked scaring Alfred, who looked scared enough already – but he couldn't stop his hands from trembling ask he held on tightly to Alfred's hand. The scratches on his arms and back had stopped bleeding. They must have hurt like the devil, but they were shallow and didn't worry him in retrospect. No, there was a more pressing matter. The wound on Alfred's head, although hidden by his red-stained hair, was still bleeding profusely. If the ambulance didn't arrive soon, Alfred would definitely be in trouble. It looked like a scene from a movie, like a film that Arthur would have regarded with equal parts of boredom and disbelief. But this was all too horribly real. The water and sand around them was tinged with an expanding sheath of red and Arthur felt like he was going to be sick.

He was growing more and more panicked with every minute that passed. Where the hell were the paramedics? They _were_ far away from the nearest hospital, but there was no way that it should be taking this long.

By the time the sirens were audible nearly ten minutes later, Alfred's grip had gone slack. His fingers, previously entwined with Arthur's, were now limp and ashen. He'd stopped responding just minutes before, and the blood coming from the wounds had slowed to thin trickles.

Arthur had held onto a single thread of hope since the ambulance ride to the hospital. After all, he was no doctor. There was a chance, a _very good _chance, that he had overestimated the severity of Al's injuries and that he was going to be completely okay. It wasn't until Arthur was sitting in the waiting area of the emergency room trying to explain to his frantic parents what had happened that he realized the gravity of the situation. If Alfred was stabilizing, wouldn't they have already sent someone out to let them know, or at least let the three of them go in to talk to him?

He realized then that Alfred hardly had a chance of pulling through.

And he was right.

* * *

Arthur had always imagined that it would be agonizing to stand beside the coffin of someone he loved. Now, however, he felt nothing. He was cold, empty, devoid of feeling. He couldn't cry. He'd had enough of that during the past few days – in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, in the waiting area of the intensive care unit, on his front porch where he stood to tell Alfred's friends what had happened, on the plane to the States – and now, when everyone expected him to show some sort of emotion, he couldn't.

The paramedics had spoken with him the day after the incident to fill him in on what had happened. He'd been right – Alfred's head wound had been just as threatening as it had looked. Not enough to damage his brain, but enough to allow him to bleed out. Blood loss. In the end, blood loss was what took him. It was strange to think that someone such as Al had fallen to a fate such as this, when a few minutes made all the difference. Just five minutes less in the water, five minutes sooner on the part of the ambulance, would have saved him.

Everyone around him knew. He could feel their eyes on him. Their accusing stares burned into him from all directions but he couldn't bring himself to face them. He knew what they would say. _Why didn't you do something? Why didn't you try to help? It's your fault. We trusted you, and you let this happen. It's your fault._

He knew that he deserved their scorn. After all, it was his own selfishness that killed Alfred in the end. If he hadn't valued taking a damned nap over spending time with his boyfriend during his last week in the country, Alfred would have gotten help from the doctors sooner. Hell, maybe he wouldn't have gotten in the water in the first place if Arthur hadn't stupidly bribed him to risk his neck simply because he was temporarily annoyed by his lighthearted personality. Arthur knew that he was to blame. But as he stood beside the casket, running his fingers absently over the smooth wooden ridges, he felt nothing.

He couldn't take his eyes off of him. It scared him to think that this would be the last time that he would see him. The horrifying trails of blood had been washed from his face, and the stained, untidy mop of hair was back to its normal golden color. His blue eyes were closed behind familiar rectangular glasses frames, eyes the shade and hue of the very ocean that took his life and which would never open again.

All around him was a sea of black. Though Al had been living with his uncle in Texas during school, the funeral was taking place in California where he used to live with his parents and brother. It was far too hot for all of this dark clothing, but it would be indecent to do something about it. Arthur's did nothing to ease the choking sensation around his neck from the tightness of the collar of his shirt. Perhaps it wasn't the suit which was so suffocating. It was the crushing silence of the room, the overwhelming sickly sweet scent of potted lilies, the sweltering California spring heat settling over them like a woolen blanket, the gazes thick with hatred crashing in on him from all sides.

The sensation of Alfred's hand going slack in his was etched into Arthur's senses as if with a hammer and chisel into marble. It was then, and only then, that the reality hit him – Al was the first person who Arthur could say that he ever loved in such a way. He hadn't been able to admit that to himself when they were together. Part of him had felt that if he conceded this point, the point that he really was in love, that he conceded defeat. And he didn't want to allow that to happen. Despite how many times Al had told him that he loved him, he'd kept his mouth shut.

And now, when he was ready to say it, Al wouldn't be able to hear him.

It was surreal, meeting people an hour or so before the service who he had only heard about through Al. At the very beginning, a white-haired boy who introduced himself as Gil began to speak with him in a ridiculously thick German accent and less-than-perfect English. He was the only one that day who seemed sincerely sorry for Arthur's loss. He'd been speaking with Alfred for the past few months, keeping him updated on his brother's condition, so he knew about the two of them. "Mattie ist very better!" he had exclaimed at one point with excitement at Matt's improved condition, drawing disapproving glances from the other patrons.

From there, it all went downhill. Arthur was approached next by a towering blonde who couldn't be older than he, but was at least a foot taller. Arthur recalled immediately who he was as soon as he introduce himself as Ivan. Arthur had never before wanted so badly to punch someone as he thought of all of the needless pain that this boy had put Al through so few months ago. But he refrained from his urge – he could see the blame in Ivan's eyes more than anyone else's.

That is, until he met Alfred's parents. They were polite at first. They wanted to know what happened, how close the two of them were, if Alfred had been happy in the United Kingdom. Normal things. And Arthur lied through his teeth. He didn't tell them how broken Alfred had been when Arthur pulled him off of those jagged rocks. He didn't tell them that he was romantically involved with their son. He didn't tell them about the crying, about the cutting, about the staying up all night wondering what he did wrong. No, it was better that they didn't know. One of their sons was lying alone in the hospital, and the other was going into ground. Even in his current state of mind, Arthur realized that the information that he had was information that they could do without. If they held in their minds that their son had been happy until the end, then that forged belief in itself was a small victory.

It wasn't until he was alone in his hotel room hours later that he lost it. He yelled, kicking the meager contents of his luggage across the floor as all of the pent-up emotions from the previous week came crashing out in a single wave. He'd collapsed onto his bed when the aftermath of his rage left him weak at the knees, and did something he never thought that he would do – he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the phone number of Gilbert Beilschmidt, a complete stranger, for help.

The two of them stayed up talking through the whole night in the hotel room. It wasn't that Arthur wanted to talk about Alfred, although it was unavoidable. He just wanted someone to be there. Even after years of being alone, the void left in Al's absence was vast. He just wanted someone to listen to, to know that he wasn't insane or deserving of living in loneliness.

And Gilbert understood that. He was all too happy to guide the conversation once he realized what it was that Arthur called him there for. Arthur quickly got used to Gilbert's thick accent, strange speaking pattern, and eccentric personality as he spoke. Gilbert told him everything that came to mind, it seemed. He told him all about his home in Germany, how he had come over to the States on an exchange program like Al's, how he had met Matthew at school and how they immediately became friends. "It's the same, yes?" he had said after telling him about the accident which had left Matt in this state. "I love Matt. He knows not. Late too much. The same for you, yes?"

Indeed, it was much the same. But unlike Arthur, Gilbert still had hope. There was a chance that Matthew would wake up still, and they'd get their happy ending. Arthur, however, had said goodbye to Alfred for the last time just hours before.

Gilbert saw him off the airport the next day with the assurance that he would come visit him sometime when he was back in Germany. "Call please if you need the to talk," he shouted in broken English as Arthur boarded the plane.

The flight back to England was the longest ten hours of Arthur's life. He couldn't sleep, and he felt too tired and sick to accept the food or drinks that the stewardesses brought by periodically. Ten hours to do nothing but think. He thought of Gil, and how he still had a chance to make things right with Matt. He thought of Al, of course – about how he couldn't do the right thing when it mattered most. He thought about Alfred's parents, about Ivan, about all of the other patrons whose gazes reminded him just how dearly his mistake had cost them.

And he thought about himself. There was no one else back in England who he could call a close friend. No one had been close enough to him to know that he and Al were together. Of course he'd get some amount of license for being the housemate of the deceased, but it wouldn't be long before people would begin to accuse him of playing it up for attention. He didn't want attention. He wanted it all to stop.

He wanted everything to slow down, to pause just for a minute. He needed to stand and get his bearings but life was surging forward at top speed like a river, and he was standing knee-deep trying to keep his balance in the current. He needed everything to stop. He didn't know how much more of this he could handle. No one would understand. He couldn't talk about it. What was his reason to stay alive if he would never accomplish anything other than mistakes?

There were only three months left of school, but Arthur set a date to test out of Sixth Form as soon as he got off of the airplane. The next week, his father drove him and his suitcase out of London and into the countryside.

Out of everyone who he spoke with, his grandfather was by far the most accepting and understanding. Arthur and his grandfather had never been particularly close, but during this time, Arthur was thankful for him. The old man was willing to provide asylum and help, and that was exactly what he did. He didn't push Arthur for information or details on what had happened. He found him a part time job at a local shop and allowed him freedom to do as he wished. When Arthur did finally come out to him and tell him exactly what happened between him and Al, he didn't expect to be comforted rather than admonished.

The old man promised him that it would get better. He promised that if there was anything that he could do to help, then he would do so. And at that moment, it was just what Arthur needed.

He didn't ever forget about Al. He thought about him all the time. But as time went on, he started to forgive himself. Was there really anything that he could have done? There were too many "what if"s involved to know for sure. But eventually, as spring wore into summer, Arthur realized that there was still a chance for him. Just because he had lost Al didn't mean that all was lost.

A few months rest was just what he needed. And, starting in September, he was ready to begin attending university as a full-time student. It was a chance to start over, to put the past behind him and begin with a clean slate.

Maybe this time he wouldn't give himself the reputation of someone whose only purpose was to make mistakes.

But maybe, that would be too much to ask.

* * *

_Author's Note: _

_Well._

_On that note, please consider dropping a review. _


	6. Chapter 6

_And we're back to the main storyline._

* * *

Arthur really wasn't an artist; that much was obvious after the very first meeting of his new art class. The instructor had already assigned two projects and it seemed that everyone else in the class already knew exactly what they were doing. It turned out that most of his classmates were planning on becoming art majors and were already perfectly adept at art; meanwhile, Arthur sat at his desk spending an unnecessary amount of time trying to remember whether or not the HB pencil was darker than the 6B. Things got even worse once he actually put pencil to paper.

Francis wasn't in class that Thursday. He didn't show up the Tuesday after that, either. Arthur had assumed that they would run into each other around campus since not many people took such early classes, but he didn't see him at all during the entire week.

He'd been worried about it at first. After he noticed Francis skipping out on the class, Arthur's free time had been spent glancing at the book with the gnawing worry that he would miss something if he didn't. But still nothing had appeared by the time the weekend arrived, and Arthur slid the book into a drawer of his desk and proceeded to attempt to put it out of his mind. He rarely checked for new words, just when he woke up and before he went to sleep. Even that seemed excessive. However, his grandfather had told him that it would be wise to pay close attention, and he had a point.

By the time class started without any sign of Francis the Thursday after that, however, Arthur packed up his things and left the classroom before they'd even had a chance to begin the lecture portion. He'd have time to work on his mediocre drawings later at home. Besides, he hadn't picked up the class to learn about art. Honestly, he'd picked it up just to save face. And right now, there didn't seem to be much point in attending.

It had been far too long since he'd heard from him. Arthur sent a message as he walked back to the car park: _Where've you been?_

The response was almost immediate: _You noticed. That's nice. _

_Of course I noticed, you dolt. We share a class and you haven't shown up all semester_, he replied back, frowning slightly at the message before he sent it.

The derision in the following message was almost audible. _Ah, has the professor finally stopped lecturing the whole time? In that case, it may actually be worth going to class. _

He pursed his lips. Francis really was the most infuriating person to message. _That doesn't answer my question. _

The response took longer this time. Arthur was almost at the car park before he received it. _I've been out. Please allow me to leave it at that. _

To be honest, Arthur didn't know what to make of the messages. What the hell was he supposed to assume? If Francis was just trying to be mysterious then that was an insufferable move on his part. But… What if he wasn't? What if there really was something keeping him from being up to going to classes? A problem at work, perhaps. Maybe he had to take on more hours to pay rent or tuition. Or it could simply be due to lack of motivation, for which Arthur couldn't bring himself to have much sympathy.

Whatever it was, Arthur couldn't help but hope that he'd be back soon. If he was going to figure out what was wrong in Francis's life and fix it before things got blown out of proportion, he'd actually have to see him sooner or later.

Arthur didn't receive another message from him until the following night. It was late on a Friday evening, and he was just preparing to begin work on his homework for the weekend as well as put some effort into his neglected drawings for art class.

But of course, fate had other plans. About ten minutes into his work, he nearly spilled his drink across the desk as he was startled by a loud noise from the other side of the wall.

"_Idiota_!" came a loud shout, barely muffled through the drywall. "That's the second one this week! I can't keep paying for all the damage you do, you know!"

Oh, that explained it. Ever since summer, Arthur had the misfortune of living next door to the Vargas brothers, two young men who shared the same appearances but were as different as night and day. And at the moment, it seemed as if the eldest was angry once again.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident!" came a higher voice. "I'll clean it up, I didn't mean–"

"I don't want your help, Feliciano," came the older man's voice again. "Get out of here."

"Lovi–"

"Feliciano, _leave_."

The air was heavily silent after the shouting ceased. Then, a few seconds later, there came the muffled sound of a clamming door.

Arthur sighed, standing up and stretching. He knew what would happen next. Every time his neighbors fought, the younger would knock on Arthur's door in pitiful tears and ask if he could stay the night. And Arthur could never say no. Feliciano often brought fruit or cakes for him from work and sometimes even joined him for afternoon coffee, and Arthur had to admit that he was quite fond of him.

And anyway, he would never end up staying for too long. The hotheaded older brother would calm down and knock on the door the next morning to apologize, and the younger would practically launch himself into his brother's arms. They'd say sorry to Arthur together for any inconvenience, and then Arthur would be left in peace for at least another few weeks until the next argument. It was all alright by him, to be honest. Their arguments never lasted very long and didn't have any lingering effects, for the most part. To say the least, it kept things interesting and he was glad for the company every so often.

Sure enough, the knock on the door came not a minute later. Arthur opened the door to receive the blubbering boy and wordlessly directed him over to the table. He picked up his mug of tea, which he had not had the chance to begin drinking yet, and set it before Feliciano. "What happened this time?" asked Arthur once Feliciano seemed to have calmed down a bit.

"I broke a plate again," he muttered, staring down into the mug.

"That's all?"

He paused. "I think fratello got in trouble at work today. He was upset when he came home."

"That's no reason to take it out on you, though. Especially if all that happened was that you broke a plate," responded Arthur. Lovino was nice enough most of the time. But whenever he was provoked, his sweet, absent-minded younger brother usually got the worst of it. Arthur knew that Feliciano loved his brother. Idolized him, even. So when something like this happened, Arthur wasn't quite sure what to do for him. "Are you hungry? Cold?"

"A little bit cold," he responded, not looking up.

Arthur noiselessly fetched him a blanket from the back of the couch and set it over his visitor's shoulders. "Are you going to be alright?"

Feliciano sniffed but gave a short nod, finally looking up at him. "Can I please stay the night?"

"Of course you may," he said, smiling a bit at the look of relief on Feliciano's face. "The couch is all yours. Stay as long as you'd like."

Feliciano began to nod off at the table not much later as the two of them chatted idly. Arthur coaxed him over to the couch and got him set up with a few extra pillows and a glass of water. A few minutes later, Feliciano was fast asleep.

Arthur found it a little sad, really. Feli would never to anything to purposefully hurt someone, yet he was so often in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur figured that he would go over and speak to Lovino personally about it if Feliciano hadn't begged him not to on more than one occasion.

An hour ticked by. Arthur sat at his desk working on an introductory assignment for his English class, content with the silence apart from Feliciano's steady breathing and the ticking of the clock above the mantle. Then, just as he was considering going to bed, the screen of his phone lit up.

A new message from Francis.

_Arthgur are yoiu there_

Arthur frowned down at the mistake-riddled text before responding: _I'm here_.

A few minutes passed before a similarly garbled message came in: _I mya need some help_

Arthur bit his lip. Francis didn't seem the kind of person to ask for help unless something truly unmanageable was happening. _What do you need? Where are you?_ he typed as he pulled the book from the top drawer of his desk, where it had lain relatively undisturbed for the past few days. A small amount of concentration brought a few lines of text, an address that more or less matched the one in the message that Francis sent not much later. That's not what concerned him, though.

No, what was worrisome was the fact that the entire placement of the lines in the book had shifted. And at the current moment, there were only a few blank lines between the last entry and the end of the book. For the first time in relation to anything about the book or Francis, he felt a pang of distress resonate within him at the realization of what this insinuated. It only lasted for a moment, however, before he stood with the intention of finding a way to the apartment of which he had the address. If he could get there quickly, perhaps he'd be able to talk with Francis for a little while and see what was going on, and hopefully put an end to whatever was happening.

He tossed the book into his bag and made for the door, but he stopped with his hand outstretched towards the doorknob. He had to do something about Feliciano. Arthur usually woke up with Feli in the bed beside him, having migrated from the couch at some point in the night. He should wake him up and tell him where he was going in case he got up in the middle of the night and was scared because Arthur wasn't there.

But then he was struck with a thought. If Francis truly was in trouble, there was no way that Arthur would be able to take him anywhere on his motorcycle. Didn't Feliciano own a car for his commute to work? He didn't want to bother him, but it was possible that Feliciano could help. Arthur promised himself that he would make it up to him later as he walked back over to the couch and shook his shoulder. "Sorry to wake you, Feli, but I need you to do me a huge favor," he explained as he shepherded Feliciano out the door before locking it behind them.

Feliciano didn't seem fully awake until they'd been on the road for a few minutes, but he listened carefully nonetheless as Arthur explained what was going on as best as he could.

What exactly _was_ going on? As Feliciano searched for the right streets, backtracking every so often, Arthur once more consulted the book in the dim light of passing streetlights. No amount of concentration would bring any more words to the page below the address. It was as if the book couldn't pick up on Francis at all. Arthur felt slightly sick.

The tension only grew with every moment of searching. The minutes dragged on; Arthur squinted his eyes shut and tried to take calming breaths, memories of the past threatening to rise once again. But Francis was going to be fine, right? There was no way that he'd let anything happen to himself. He seemed far too egocentric for that. But then again, the false smile which Francis had exhibited weeks before stuck in his mind; he was nonchalantly defensive, so much so that the ego had just seemed like a show after they left the hospital.

At this point, Arthur had no idea what to expect.

After what seemed like at least half an hour, Feliciano parked the car at the curb of a tall apartment building. Arthur jumped out of the car the moment it stopped moving, antsy after having been stuck inside for so long without being able to do anything other than wonder what sort of trouble Francis was in, and what he could be doing to help him if they could just find the damn building. After one last check of the room number, Arthur tossed the book back in the passenger's seat. He wouldn't need it for anything.

"I'll wait here," said Feliciano, yawning as he unbuckled his seatbelt and curled up in the front seat.

The building was old and smelled of dust and mildew. There were signs of water damage on the ceiling around the dimmed light fixtures in the entry hall. Spider webs adorned the ceiling corners, and the entire hallway was heavily, stiflingly silent.

A rickety elevator took him to the 8th floor of the building, the cables squeaking slightly with overuse. When the elevator finally arrived at the right floor with much whirring and rattling, Arthur could tell immediately that he was in the correct place. There was a hint of cigarette smoke and alcohol in the air, and the baseline of some unheard song rumbled through the walls. Arthur stepped out of the elevator, peering at the plaques beside the doors lining the narrow hallway. Most of the lights embedded in the ceiling were out of commission, some flickering and some refusing to light at all. It was hard to make out the numbers in the near-darkness, but he soon found the room that matched the number in both the book and the message which Francis had sent more than half an hour earlier.

The music became more defined as Arthur reached the door, which was already open just a crack. He knocked quietly before pushing the door open the rest of the way, knowing that it was unlikely that anyone would answer it. It was nearing 3 AM and whatever party had been going on was now completely wound down. Arthur had been to such parties – he hadn't enjoyed them – and knew that around this time, no one would care that there was one more person among them.

This room was just as dimly lit as the hallway outside. It was warm, and the air was smoky and stagnant. Discarded alcohol bottles lay on almost every surface; sleeping people lay on the couches, the floor, even on the coffee table beside the stereo system that was playing the slow reggae of which Arthur had heard the baseline in the hallway. No one he recognized. Someone sitting before the television in the living room waved absently in Arthur's general direction, a mixture of welcome and acknowledgement. He was the only one out of all of the people in the room who seemed to be moving, so Arthur guessed that he was his best bet.

"Excuse me," said Arthur, trying to keep his voice down as he made his way carefully towards the guy, making sure not to step on anyone. "Is Francis here?" he asked.

The man looked back at him, a blank look on his face. "Francis," he muttered. "Yeah, he was here. Might've gone home. Dunno."

"Do you know where I could find him in case he's still here?"

He frowned. "Huh?"

Arthur closed his eyes, attempting to keep himself from getting agitated. "If he was here, where would he be?"

The man shrugged. "Out back, maybe. That way." He gestured towards a darkened doorway at the other end of the room.

Arthur murmured a quick thank you, stepping around someone asleep on the floor as he made his way towards the doorway.

The shadowy doorway led to a kitchen that looked like it had seen better days. It seemed that it was kept in pristine condition at most times, but there were broken glasses and spilled drinks across the countertops after the night's events. Arthur passed through the room, pulling open a sliding glass door at the other end.

He was welcomed with a gust of cool breeze that was more than refreshing after the stifling warmth of the apartment. He was on a sort of iron terrace, a balcony overlooking the lit windows of apartment buildings and high rises in the distance. The view from this incredible height was magnificent, even in the dark. Arthur couldn't help but think about how nice the view of the sky must be at sunset.

As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he realized that he wasn't alone on the balcony. There was someone else leaning against the railing, someone with the burning ember of a cigarette just barely illuminating his face. His hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, but there was no mistaking it.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief with the recognition. He was alright for the time being. "Francis?" he said. "Are you alright?"

Francis didn't say anything right away, just kept looking out over the city as a bit of ash dropped from the end of his cigarette and fell towards the street far below. "Yes," he said, his voice a little strained. "_Je veux dire, non. Je ne sais pas_."

"Sit down for a minute," said Arthur, taking him by the wrist and leading him toward an iron patio chair. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Francis shook his head. He looked exhausted. Arthur could even tell that much in the darkness. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were unfocused as Arthur peered with concern at him.

"Hey," muttered Arthur, patting his face lightly in an attempt to make him focus. "Wake up. We're going home."

Francis shook his head again, chuckling slightly. "Right," he mumbled. "Home." He felt around the table beside him and picked up a little glass half-filled with clear liquid.

Arthur grabbed it from him before he had the chance to drink. "Hold on," he said, lifting it to his face. The acidic odor burned his nose immediately, and he moved the glass farther away from Francis with disgust. "No, you've had enough. You were already making typing mistakes when you messaged me half an hour ago, so I can't imagine… Hey," he said, shaking Francis's arm.

He was no longer paying attention, it seemed. His eyes were open, but he had leaned his head back against the backrest of his chair and was looking up at the sky above. "I'm tired of it, Arthur," he said after a moment, his syllables strung together as if they made one word.

Arthur sat up, looking across the table at Francis. "Tired of what?"

He took a moment to respond. "Everything, really."

Arthur didn't like where this was going. Before he could say anything, however, Francis was continuing.

"I can't see where any of this is going. It's going nowhere, and I can't fix this." He closed his eyes and gestured vaguely toward the railing of the balcony. "And even though I know I've made too many mistakes to count for anything, I couldn't jump." His hand fell limply to the table and he quieted.

Arthur sat in stunned silence once more. His grandfather had been right after all. In the back of his mind, he had been hoping that he was wrong. And yet here they were.

The last time that this had happened, that Arthur had been connected to someone dealing with whatever sort of hardship, it had ended in disaster. He had sworn to his grandfather that he wouldn't let anything like that happen again. But now, as he gazed across the table at the one sitting hardly three feet away, he had no idea of how to go about doing that. Al and Francis were two completely different people, after all. And he hadn't known what to do for Al either, other than just be there for him when he needed him. Could he do that for Francis, a near-stranger who he had only talked to on a few occasions?

All of this time that he spent sitting uselessly as Francis nodded off again was time wasted. He'd have time to ponder about this later when it wasn't so crucial to be alert.

When Arthur spoke next, he was taken aback by just how quiet his voice was. "Let's go, Francis," he muttered, wanting to leave as soon as possible. Or at least move Francis to somewhere safer than the balcony.

Navigating back out of the apartment proved to be a difficult task considering that he had Francis's arm over his shoulder and was supporting most of his weight. After the tedious elevator ride and the walk back out to the car, Arthur led Francis to the back seat and tapped on the front window to wake Feliciano, who was asleep in the front seat.

"Is he okay?" asked Feliciano a few minutes later, peering into the back seat after he had regained enough consciousness to be fully aware of his surroundings.

"He'll be fine," said Arthur, flipping to the last entry of the book. "I hope, at least."

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the final page. Where there had earlier only been a few blank lines, there was now an entire page, front and back, separating the final entry from the leather-bound back cover.

They'd been on the road for a while, Arthur glancing in the mirror every once in a while at the man sprawled across the seats behind him. "I owe you for this, Feliciano," said Arthur.

"It's okay, I like helping out!" he said with a smile.

"I'll take you to lunch sometime to make it up, alright?"

"Ah, that sounds nice," said Feliciano, the happy smile still on his face despite how obviously exhausted he was.

Feliciano and Arthur supported Francis between them to get him into the house. It wasn't until they were inside the apartment that Feliciano asked the obvious question.

"Where's he going to stay?"

Arthur furrowed his brow. No matter how tired he himself was, Francis was in a worse state. "He can have my room. You keep the couch. I'll sleep on the floor."

Feliciano nodded agreeably, too tired to protest.

Francis grumbled slightly at them as they led him to Arthur's room, but was soon fast asleep as soon as he was situated in the bed with a new pillow and blankets.

Arthur took his own pillow and tossed it onto the ground beside the bed. He hadn't been able to get any of the work done that he had been toiling on before receiving Francis's message, and he couldn't stop himself from thinking about all of the work that he would have to make up over the weekend, despite the fact that there were more important things to think about.

He stared up at the ceiling as he reflected on the evening. Recently it was becoming more and more difficult to find time to have a quiet night in, and in reality it was quite a strain. It was alright to have Feliciano over, since he wasn't any trouble and usually made breakfast for the two of them the following morning, and he was always out of the apartment by noon. Arthur had the feeling that things would be different once Francis was added into the mix. He didn't know how exactly, but it was his best guess.

What would have happened if he hadn't messaged for help? And why had he messaged in the first place? Would he have gone through with it?

Those were questions for the morning, he decided. Hopefully Francis would be up to talk instead of keeping up his unreasonable façade. Answers were what would help Arthur find out what to do to help him. Because that was the goal of all of this, wasn't it?

Arthur didn't even know anymore.

The important thing was that everyone was safe. And as Arthur settled into his makeshift bed on the floor, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief.

* * *

_Author's Note: _

_Sorry that the quality of this chapter is below par. It's finals week and I'm actually moving to California in a few weeks, so there's a lot going on and I may not have the next chapter in on time. I'll try my best, though. _


End file.
